Weekend at Roy's
by Obsessive Explosion
Summary: Mustang needs help hiding an infected wound during an important Aerugan diplomatic summit.
1. Chapter 1

Hughes heard the phone ring, but it took him a long few seconds to understand what was going on. He had been in a dead sleep, and when the sound woke him up he was too exhausted and disoriented to process it for a moment. Even once he had gotten himself out of bed and moved over to the table, he wasn't entirely sure what the call was signifying. He was staying in a hotel in East City; who would even have this number? He supposed Gracia would, but there was no way she would be calling him this early in the morning, not unless there was some sort of emergency….

"Hello?" he said, picking up the phone and lifting it to his ear.

"Maes." The voice on the other end was strained-sounding, and instantly recognizable. Hughes sighed a little.

"Roy? What is it? I...I was asleep. I don't have to be at the Command Center for a few more hours, you know that, right?"

"I...I know," Mustang said hesitatingly. "But I needed to talk to you."

Hughes felt his heart drop into his stomach. "What's wrong?" he said. Because of course something must be wrong, there was no way Mustang would call Hughes in the early hours of the morning needing to talk if there wasn't some problem that required solving.

Mustang didn't say anything for a few long moments. Hughes was about to ask him if he had hung up when he finally started to speak again.

"I don't want to say over the phone," he said. It was then that Hughes realized how tired and drained he sounded. He sounded... _ill,_ like he had the flu, and Hughes wanted to reach through the phone and grab him and shake him until he told him what was going on.

"Are you sick?" Hughes demanded. "You know how important this is, please don't tell me you're sick…."

"Just...come to the Command Center. As...as soon as you can. Please."

"Roy, don't you dare hang up on me, tell me what's happening-"

"I have to go," he said, voice weak. "Just...be here soon."

"Roy-"

But he heard the click, and knew that his friend had already hung up. Hughes slammed the phone back down again. It hadn't sounded like whatever Mustang had been going on about was a life or death situation, but he _had_ made it sound urgent, and Hughes knew he couldn't put off getting to Eastern Command. Mustang clearly needed him, he wouldn't have called if he didn't. And if it was something that he wasn't willing to say over the phone….

Hughes tried to figure out what it could be that was distressing Mustang so much as he pulled off his pajamas and dragged on his uniform. Based on the way his voice had sounded, Hughes had to guess there was a problem with _Mustang,_ not simply with paperwork or scheduling or investigations. But Hughes had seen Mustang last night, and he hadn't seemed particularly sick then. Hughes supposed he had seemed rather tired, but at the time he had chalked that up to the stress of hosting important Aerugan dignitaries in Eastern Command for the week and nothing more.

The diplomats had arrived in East City about a week ago, and so far, everything was going smoothly. General Grumman's men had been working around the clock to keep the Aerugan dignitaries happy, and they'd been mostly successful.

Successful barring that one minor...incident, of course. But on the whole, things were running smoothly, and Hughes was impressed with the East City officials. Despite Grumman's eccentric reputation, the man was clearly smart and capable.

And what's more, he had Roy Mustang working under him, Roy who was desperate to rise all the way to the top. He worked hard to stand out, and made everyone around him stand out in the process. And it seemed to be working; even in this high stress situation Mustang was flourishing. Of course, it was nothing compared to a war zone. But if Mustang was ill….

Hughes dashed out of the hotel room, grateful that it was only a few blocks away from Eastern Command. He could be at his friend's side in a matter of minutes, and then he'd be able to assess the situation and deal with the damage.

Hopefully, it wasn't anything too bad, and Mustang was just tired, or stressed. But as much as Hughes wanted to believe that, it didn't seem likely. Mustang was too proud for that. He never asked for help unless there was no other choice.

Almost without thinking, Hughes broke into a run. After that, it only took him a few more minutes to reach Eastern Command. He flashed his credentials at the sleepy receptionist and hurried down the unfamiliar hallways, hoping he remembered where his friend's office was.

Mustang's office was shut, but there was light showing beneath the door. Hughes knocked on it lightly.

"It's open," Mustang said from within, sounding exhausted. His worry mounting, Hughes pulled the door open and entered the office.

Mustang was sitting in his desk chair, holding himself carefully upright. Something about his posture seemed wrong, and Hughes stared at him for a few seconds before realizing that he was twisted slightly, his right shoulder held at an awkward angle.

"Hughes, I think-" Mustang began to speak, but Hughes knew what he was going to say. With a jolt, all of the pieces fell into place, and Hughes felt his heart sink.

* * *

Mustang sat stiffly at his desk, trying not to agitate his shoulder. Suddenly, any movement felt almost impossible considering the agonizing pain that lay in wait. Mustang knew his shoulder was infected, he'd known it since last night, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge the truth and the host of problems it entailed.

A week ago, when the Aerugan dignitaries had arrived, a few of them had gone out to a bar. Some idiot Amestrians had started an altercation, and one of the foreigners had drawn his rapier and given one of the Amestrians a souvenir, a nice little gash along his right shoulder. The foreigners were understandably angry about the Amestrian hostility, and General Grumman had begun a search for the men responsible. Hospitals had been notified to look out for anyone with wounds that fit the description.

Mustang and Hughes hadn't known that they were diplomats, they'd just thought they were your everyday drunken assholes. Unfortunately, Mustang didn't think that that explanation would be enough to avoid a war. If the diplomats found out they'd been attacked by two Amestrian military officials instead of two mere civilians….

And, of course, he and Hughes would almost certainly face a court martial. All in all, Mustang and Hughes had determined that it would be best to keep this… _incident_ …quiet. Mustang had gone home and bandaged the wound as best he could, and he hadn't thought any more about it.

But now the gash hurt with a sick pulse that matched his breathing, and the skin over his right shoulder felt stretched and tight. And as if that wasn't enough, Mustang felt ill, slow and heavy. He thought he might be running a fever. He had woken up too nauseous to risk eating, and his head was pounding faintly in a way that made it hard to think.

He knew that what he really needed was a hospital. But he couldn't forget the sinking feeling in his stomach when he'd walked into the emergency room only to see a uniformed figure telling the receptionist to report anyone who came in with a gash on the back of their right shoulder. He knew that wasn't an option. And Hughes was the next best thing.

"Your shoulder…something's wrong with it, isn't it?" Hughes said, looking at Mustang with an expression of worry and dismay.

"I...I think it might be infected," Mustang said. He reached his left hand up to touch the wound, wincing when his fingers even so much as brushed the fabric. "I need you to fix it."

Hughes laughed nervously, like he thought Mustang might be joking. "Roy, I'm sorry, I don't think I'm going to be able to fix your shoulder-"

"Please just try," Mustang said, a little embarrassed at how weak and strained his voice sounded. "I need to be at the parade in thirty minutes, and I'm not sure I can even salute…."

"Alright," Hughes said, his voice softening a little. "Let me take a look at it."

"Thanks," Mustang said. He nodded slightly, and the movement made his head swirl. He swallowed hard.

"How did you even get to work this morning?" Hughes asked. While he was speaking, Mustang began laboriously unbuttoning his jacket, struggling because his right arm was almost completely useless.

"I didn't," Mustang said.

"What?"

"I could feel that it was starting to get bad last night, so I decided to stay here overnight. I figured that would be easier. Less chance of missing the parade."

"You spent the night in your office?"

"Yeah," he said. He began gently trying to ease the jacket over his shoulder. The fabric kept catching on the bandages, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He felt his eyes close, almost involuntarily. He was just so exhausted; he had barely gotten any sleep at all the night before, sitting upright at his desk and trying to look busy in case anyone realized he was still there, shoulder already starting to throb with a dull pain.

"Let me do that," Hughes said. He tugged the fabric off Mustang's shoulder. It was fast enough that he felt a small cry escape him, but then the pain was over and Hughes was pulling the sleeve off his arm.

"I'm going to have to take these bandages off, okay, Roy?"

Mustang nodded, steeling himself for the pain. Even so, when Hughes removed the sloppy bandage, Mustang couldn't stop himself from crying out. There was a long moment of silence, and then Hughes sighed heavily.

"Goddamnit, Roy…."

"That bad?" Mustang said, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt Hughes' gentle fingers on his shoulder, and clenched his jaw to keep from crying out again.

"It's not good," Hughes said. "I wish you'd let me clean it out a week ago…."

Mustang laughed bitterly, feeling the sick heat in his shoulder. "Yeah, me too. Is there anything you can do? Please? I...I don't think I can get through the next few days like this…."

Hughes sighed again, and Mustang's heart sank slightly. "I can't really do anything for your shoulder at this point, it's pretty bad…. You need to go to a hospital."

"I can't-"

"I know. That's not an option. I guess we're just gonna have to keep this a secret til the diplomats leave."

Mustang closed his eyes, feeling desperation well up inside him. He saw his career, and Hughes', crumble in his mind. Twenty five and already a Lieutenant Colonel, but all that would be for nothing if he was court martialed.

"Hughes, I...I don't think I can. I'm not even sure I can stand up, I can barely move my arm…."

"You aren't gonna be doing this alone, Roy." Hughes sounded almost offended, and Mustang carefully turned his head to look at his friend.

"You...you'll help me?"

Hughes rolled his eyes, as if the very question was ridiculous. "Of course I'll help you. They won't suspect a thing. And when they leave, we'll figure something out and get you help. Okay?"

Mustang nodded, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. "Okay." The prospect of having to pretend to be perfectly well for the next two days wasn't exactly appealing, but it no longer felt quite so impossible.

* * *

Hughes had wanted to encourage Mustang, but he wasn't nearly as confident as he seemed. He took a deep breath and looked back at Mustang's shoulder, forcing himself not to look away.

The wound was half scabbed over, oozing a mixture of pus and watery blood that had soaked through the bandage. The skin surrounding it was red and puffy, as though it was stretched too thin. As soon as Hughes laid his hand on Mustang's shoulder, he could feel the unnatural heat that was coming from the wound. And even the barest hint of touch on the area around it caused Mustang to shudder with pain. He looked almost sick with agony, even when Hughes was nowhere near the wound itself.

Hughes wasn't even sure washing it out was going to be much use at this point. Hughes had no idea what he could do to help, short of getting Mustang some antibiotics. But that would only be possible in a hospital. Hughes felt like he was trapped between a rock and a hard place. He had to either get medical help, losing the cooperation of the dignitaries and harming Amestris's and Aerugo's already fragile status, or watch his best friend die.

No. Mustang wasn't going to die yet. He was sick, but there was still a lot of fight left in him. They just had to make it through the rest of today, and part of tomorrow. They would...they would be fine.

Hughes rummaged around in the desk and found a small first-aid kit. There wasn't much much in it, but there were some bandages. He wound them around Mustang's shoulder, being as gentle as he could. Mustang hissed in pain whenever Hughes so much as brushed it.

"I'm gonna get your shirt back on, alright?" Hughes said.

Mustang nodded stiffly. Hughes tugged the fabric back up, trying to be as gentle as he could. Mustang sucked in a sharp breath whenever Hughes accidentally jostled the wound. Hughes winced slightly, hating to cause Mustang pain.

"You can still walk, right?" Hughes said once he had gotten Mustang's shirt back on. If Mustang couldn't walk, this was going to be difficult to even impossible.

"Yes," Mustang said. As if to demonstrate, he pushed himself to his feet. He moved in front of his desk, walking a little unsteadily but certainly under his own power. He looked at Hughes as if daring him to say something.

"You think you can make it through the whole parade like that?" Hughes asked dubiously. The parade wasn't a particularly long affair, about ten minutes of all the soldiers marching together, designed mostly to show off the Amestrian military prowess. But there would certainly be quite a bit of walking, and in formation, no less. Hughes wasn't sure how well Mustang would be able to handle it.

"Don't really have a choice," Mustang said grimly. He took a few shaky steps toward the door, and Hughes watched him dubiously.

"I'm going to walk with you, just in case," Hughes told him firmly. "The Aerugan diplomats won't know the difference."

Mustang looked as though he were about to protest, but he just nodded softly. More than anything else, this scared Hughes. He'd expected his friend to protest, to complain about being "smothered." His quiet acceptance meant that he must really be sick.

"Okay," Hughes said, looking Mustang over for any outward signs of illness. He was paler than usual, but that would be put down to the stress. Hughes winced at the stiff way Mustang was holding his shoulder, but he knew how much it had to hurt. Mustang was doing the best he could. They'd just have to hope no one noticed.

"Let's have a parade," Hughes said with an optimism he didn't feel, and watched Mustang stagger out the door with no small amount of trepidation.

* * *

Mustang stood in the hot sun, grateful for Hughes at his elbow. The parade hadn't even started, and he was already swaying on his feet. For possibly the first time in his life, Mustang wished for rain.

Maybe not rain. But a few clouds would be nice, they would cut off the punishing sun and give him a break from the damn heat. Mustang felt the little water he'd retained begin to leach out of his skin and his stomach roiled unpleasantly. He was momentarily glad that he hadn't eaten anything that morning, and then General Grumman signaled and the parade began.

Mustang fell into a rhythm quickly enough. He focused on the horizon, and he ignored the pain in his shoulder every time his foot hit the ground. He could do this, he could march for fifteen minutes, that was nothing.

But after five minutes, Mustang's shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he had to hold back a continuous whimper. The horizon blurred with tears he could barely keep from spilling over, and he didn't think he could last any longer.

"Come on, Roy," Hughes whispered in his ear, and he felt his friend's reassuring hand graze his back. "You can do this."

If he got caught, Hughes would too. He couldn't ruin both of their careers. Mustang gritted his teeth and kept marching.

Five long minutes later, Mustang was barely keeping his footing. Every step felt like it could be his last. He couldn't understand how the men around him hadn't noticed, surely they could see that he was barely stumbling at this point, much less marching. The wound in his shoulder throbbed sickeningly, and he felt like he was perpetually a little off-balance, like the world kept shifting beneath his feet. He groaned slightly.

He felt his boot catch in something, some sort of microscopic crack in the ground. His balance was shot, the fever and the swirling in his head doing a number on his ability to catch himself. Before he was even entirely aware of what was happening, his knees hit the ground. He felt a shock of pain go through his legs, quickly followed by his palms as they hit the pavement too.

He was too disoriented to push himself to his feet, or even realize what had happened for a few seconds. He peeled one of his hands off the rough ground and peered at it, watching the blood smear across his palm from several shallow cuts. He blinked slowly.

"Get up!" Hughes said sharply from somewhere above him. Mustang started to turn his head blearily to look up at him, but before he could Hughes had latched one hand under Mustang's left shoulder and grabbed his collar with the other one and he was hauling Mustang to his feet. Mustang stumbled as he fought to catch his balance. And then Hughes was shoving him forward, and he was walking again.

"What the hell happened?" someone behind him whispered angrily.

"He tripped," Hughes said, spinning part way around, removing his hands from Mustang's back.

"Maes-" Mustang whimpered. He could feel blood dripping down his legs now. His head was spinning.

"Keep walking," Hughes hissed. "You're almost done."

Mustang kept stumbling forward, almost grateful for the pain in his shoulder because it distracted nicely from the pain in his knees and palms. He tried to look at the wounds in his hands again, bringing his left one up a little to examine it.

"No," Hughes whispered firmly, grabbing Mustang's hand and pressing it down at his side. "Stop that. Just...keep moving forward."  
Mustang obediently kept walking, trying to fall into a rhythm and not let himself think about anything but moving. He kept his hands pressed into the fabric of his pant legs, hoping no one would notice the bleeding. He just had to keep walking forward, one foot and then the other, just a little farther….

"Roy!" Hughes hissed. He realized there was a hand grabbing the back of his uniform. Then he realized that everyone else had already stopped walking. He stopped too. His legs almost buckled, but he kept his footing. He shook his head to clear it, wishing he were less dizzy.

"Sorry, can't stay and listen to the speeches," Hughes was saying to the other soldiers. He started to push his way out of the crowd, pulling Mustang along with him. "We have very important preparations to be doing, very important, yeah…."

"Important," Mustang echoed dumbly, stumbling along in Hughes' wake. He followed Hughes back through the doors of Eastern Command, towed along by Hughes' hand on his wrist. Hughes swept through the halls, nodding at everyone they encountered, but not giving them any time to start a conversation. Mustang did his best, but nodding his head just made him feel more off balance, and he didn't want to fall again.

Finally, Hughes stopped walking, and Mustang leaned gratefully against the wall and closed his aching eyes. He focused on breathing, letting the dull pain in his shoulder intertwine with the sharp stinging in his palms and knees. The pain swirled inside him, and he breathed with it and let it wrap around him. It was almost peaceful. If he could just stay here….

* * *

"Roy!" Hughes said sharply. His friend's eyes remained closed, and Hughes reached out and shook him slightly by his non-injured shoulder.

"Roy, come on. Let's get you cleaned up," Hughes said gently, and Mustang's eyes finally fluttered open.

"Yeah," he muttered, and trailed after Hughes into the locker room. It was deserted, all the soldiers occupied with the parade and the speeches. Hughes steered Mustang toward one of the long benches that ran across the length of the room and sat him down. Mustang blinked up at him vacantly, and Hughes swore under his breath.

"Hey, Roy, I know you feel awful, but you gotta try to keep it together, alright?" Hughes retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet in the corner and returned to Mustang. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," Mustang said, nodding firmly. Then, his expression wavered, and he dropped his eyes.

"I don't know, Hughes," he said, voice trembling. "I couldn't even march in a damn parade. What...what if I can't do it?"  
Hughes pulled Mustang's left hand toward him and swabbed it out with antiseptic, pretending not to notice Mustang's hiss of pain.

"You can do it," he told his friend, wrapping gauze around Mustang's palm. "Everything else is sitting and talking. That's easy."

Mustang didn't look convinced, and Hughes switched hands, trying not to pull on Mustang's injured shoulder.

"You'll be fine," he insisted with a certainty he didn't feel. "All you have to do is pretend every diplomat is one of those girls you charm into hanging around. You'll have them eating out of your hand."

Mustang chuckled weakly, and Hughes smiled at him. "See? It's all gonna work out. Even the parade went ok. We're gonna do this."

Mustang nodded, more firmly this time, and Hughes finished bandaging his right hand. "Alright, let's have a look at your knees."

"Maes?"

Hughes looked up, and Mustang took his eyes from his bandaged palms and locked his gaze on Hughes.

"Thanks."

Hughes smiled slightly and rolled up Mustang's pant legs as gently as he could. He did his best to wash out the wounds, but there were microscopic bits of blue fabric from Mustang's uniform stuck in them, and he couldn't get them out without making the whole thing start bleeding all over again. He put a few adhesives over the deepest wounds, then tugged Mustang's pants back down. By the time he was done, his friend was almost asleep. His eyes were fluttering, and his face was greyish with pain.

"Alright," Hughes said, trying to sound confident. "What else do we need to do? I can help you get everything done, but I just need to know what all your duties for today were."

Hughes knew that Mustang had been working for months to get everything ready for the diplomats, and many of the logistical responsibilities were on him. He didn't know exactly what Mustang's jobs were, but he knew he would have a role today, and if it didn't get filled people would get suspicious. Making sure the all the various ceremonies and meetings were taken care of was probably the most important part of keeping Mustang out of trouble.

But Mustang was shaking his head. "I...I can't do all of it like this. I need to meet with people, and I need-"

"Just tell me what you needed to do," Hughes said. "I'll take care of it, don't worry."

"I...I don't remember," Mustang said miserably.

"You don't remember?"

"My head feels…." Mustang gestured agitatedly. "I can't.…"

"It's alright," Hughes said. He could tell Mustang was distressed, and he didn't want to make it worse. But at the same time, he had no idea how they would get through today if he didn't even know what they had to do.

Mustang murmured something that Hughes couldn't make out.

"What was that?"  
"It's the Lieutenant," he said. "I need her. You need to get her."

"Hawkeye?"

Mustang nodded. "The Lieutenant will know what to do. She'll remember."

Hughes frowned slightly. Of course Riza would know what Mustang's duties were, that was her job, and she had been working alongside him the whole time he had been trying to get this ready. But Hughes still wasn't sure it was the right call to involve her. Riza didn't know that her superior had been the one to antagonize the diplomats the week before, and he didn't think she would react very kindly if she found out. She took the law far more seriously than either Mustang or Hughes did, and there was a small part of Hughes that was afraid she would just turn them in on the spot.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Hughes asked.

Mustang nodded, as firmly as he could given his current state. "Just get her," he whispered. "Please."


	2. Chapter 2

Riza hurried along the hallway to her superior's office, worried and trying not to show it. Major Hughes hadn't told her much in the call, just asked her to make her way to Mustang's office as quickly as she could. The typically exuberant man had sounded subdued, and there was an edge of strain in his voice that worried Riza. He could only be worried about Mustang; Riza couldn't think of any other reason for the call and his attitude.

The Lieutenant Colonel had seemed a little withdrawn lately, but he had been under a lot of stress. The diplomats were difficult to please, especially since two of them had been "attacked" by some rowdy Amestrians.

Riza reached the door to the office and rapped lightly on it.

"Come in," Mustang answered, and she breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Maybe she had overreacted, maybe she would open the door and he would be completely fine, just worried about some easily fixed detail of the day. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She hadn't overreacted. Mustang's face was an awful pale grey color, and with every slow blink it looked as though he might not reopen his eyes.

"Lieutenant," he said stiffly. "I need your help." Hughes, hovering nervously behind him, shot her a pleading look.

"What's wrong, sir?" she asked, taking a step forward. "You look ill. Have you seen a doctor?"

Hughes and Mustang made identical grimaces. Mustang sighed heavily and shook his head. "No doctors," he mumbled.

"Sir…."

He locked eyes with her, looking so desperate that she broke off despite herself.

"Lieutenant, going to a doctor is not an option. I will explain. You...you may want to sit down, this could take some time."

Riza pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, looking worriedly at her superior officer as he closed his eyes miserably.

"Hughes, will you…?"

"Sure," Hughes said quickly, placing a comforting hand on Mustang's left shoulder. He turned to Riza and took a deep breath. "So…."

Riza listened to Hughes with a mounting sense of horror. He spoke quickly, avoiding eye contact. When he was done, she sat for a moment, trying to process the new information.

"Lieutenant, I need your help if I want to keep my job," Mustang said softly. "I...I can barely remember where I'm supposed to be next, much less what I'm supposed to do when I get there. You've been helping me plan these next two days for months, you know my schedule better than I do. Please...please help me."

Of course she would help him, that's what having his back was all about. She would do anything for the Lieutenant Colonel, anything to keep him safe. But he was sitting there, clearly in pain, looking as though he could pass out at any moment. His safety had to be her first priority.

"I'll help," she said hesitantly. "But, sir, I really think you need a doctor."

Hughes ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "We know he needs a doctor," he growled. "Weren't you listening when we explained why he can't have one?"

Riza glanced at Mustang again. His eyes had slipped closed, and it seemed like the only reason he was still upright was Hughes' hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, looking back at Hughes, "but the Lieutenant Colonel is dangerously ill. He needs medical attention. His life is more important than his career."

Mustang's eyes flickered open. "I will be fine," he said, voice quiet but strong. "A day and a half. Then, the diplomats will be gone and I will see any doctor you want."

Riza frowned. Mustang didn't know how to take care of himself, that's why it was her job and always had been. He would have gotten killed long ago without her. But the system only worked if Mustang actually _listened_ to her, otherwise there was nothing she would be able to do.

Riza understood how important these meetings with the diplomats were, of course she did. She had been working on them alongside Mustang for months. But that didn't mean the Lieutenant Colonel should have to _die_ for them, and the fact that Hughes was encouraging him was just making everything worse.

Mustang was the most stubborn person she had ever met. He would literally let himself die before he put his career or the summit in jeopardy. And she was not entirely sure that Hughes realized this. If he really understood how dire things were, he would be doing everything he could to get Mustang to a hospital too.

"Lieutenant, please," Mustang whispered, and she realized she still hadn't responded to him. She looked down at him, sighing a little. He looked pathetic, barely able to sit up on his own, face greyish and drawn with pain, lips cracked with fever heat. Maybe it didn't matter how hard she and Hughes tried, she still wasn't sure they would be able to pull this off.

"I'll help you," she said. "I'll...I'll do everything I can."

"Thank you," Hughes said softly, looking genuinely relieved. "Now...can you tell us what the rest of his duties were today?"

Riza was already reaching into her pocket, where she had a list of all the last minute things that still needed to be done. "Of course I can," she said. "Here, I have this list…."

* * *

Mustang was sitting at his desk, head buried in his hands. He groaned softly. He wished the room would stop spinning, it was making it impossible to concentrate and he was a little worried that he might be sick.

"Sir, do you think you could drink some water?" Riza asked.

"No."

He heard her sigh. "It will make you feel better, sir."

Mustang did not think the Lieutenant understood just how sick he felt. Water absolutely would not make him feel better. "I don't want it," he said.

She didn't say anything for a few moments after that. Mustang continued to rest with his head in his arms, relishing the quiet and the darkness and the way it relieved his pounding head.

"Alright," she said after a few moments. "Why don't you sign a few more of the forms. And then you can rest for another couple minutes."

Mustang wanted to protest, to continue to rest in the peaceful darkness, but he knew that Riza was letting him take as many breaks as he could afford to, and he still had duties that needed to get done. He swallowed hard and nodded slightly, then lifted his head off his hands and looked blearily at Riza. She was holding a stack of paperwork, which she placed in front of him. Before he could even ask for a pen, there was one in his hand. Biting his lip, he centered the first page in front of him and prepared to scribble his signature.

Mustang knew that writing would hurt, that moving his arm at all would hurt. But he hadn't expected it to hurt quite _this_ much. Despite his best efforts, a whimper escaped from his lips.

"Sir?" Riza looked up at him sharply, instantly on alert. Mustang shook his head at her, not wanting to open his mouth and allow the swallowed scream to spill out. He breathed in, then out, then decided he could risk words.

"It's nothing," he mumbled. He knew he had to complete this paperwork, and having Riza worry over him wouldn't help anything. With an effort, he forced himself to sign the next page.

He managed to get through five documents before the pain in his shoulder became unbearable. His breathing was starting to come in ragged gasps, and Riza had abandoned any pretense of doing her own work in favor of staring at him in dismay.

"Sir, that is not nothing," she said gently, but disapprovingly.

Mustang couldn't hold out any longer. He let the pen drop from his shaking fingers and wiped at his sweaty forehead with his left hand.

"I...I can't finish these," he admitted, gesturing to the paperwork in front of him. "I...it hurts too much, I…." He dropped his head back to the desk, deeply ashamed. One lousy infection, and he couldn't even lift a pen. Pathetic.

He heard a soft intake of breath from Riza, and then her cautious footsteps approaching. There was a rustle as she lifted up the paperwork, no doubt noticing that what little he had managed to sign was illegible.

Mustang was trying, he really was, but at this point it felt like a struggle just to stay conscious. Even forming a complete thought was difficult. He certainly couldn't read and sign a stack of papers.

"I'm not going to get through this," he said miserably, head still on the desk.

"Of course you will, sir," Riza said firmly. "The paperwork isn't absolutely necessary, I can explain that you're swamped with diplomatic concerns-"

"Not the paperwork," Mustang said, hauling himself upright and fixing a desperate eye on Riza. "This whole…all of this. I'm not going to be able to do it."

Riza hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Mustang moaned softly and hid his eyes with his left hand. He had so many plans for this country, he had so many reparations to make. None of that would happen if he messed up now.

"I can't...I need to…I made a promise," he said, words disjointed in his distress. He dropped his hand and looked back at Riza pleadingly.

"I made a promise too," she said, her voice filling with new resolve. "And it would be difficult for me to watch your back if you're court martialed. We _will_ get through this, sir. I promise."

Mustang knew those words were empty, but it didn't matter. As suddenly as the bleak hopelessness had stolen over him, it was gone. Riza and Hughes were there, they were going to help him. They could get through this.

* * *

Hughes paced the corridor outside of Mustang's office, on high alert for any approaching footsteps. Riza had given him a copy of Mustang's schedule for today, and Mustang still had an hour before the next diplomatic event. That time was supposed to be spent doing paperwork and assisting any lower ranking soldiers with serious issues. His office was supposed to be open, available to anyone with a question.

Obviously, that wasn't entirely possible with Mustang's current condition. Hughes had been posted outside, with the express purpose of deterring anyone who wanted an audience with Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. So far, he had turned away a young soldier trying to get signatures on an updated menu for tonight's dinner, an Aerugan diplomat wanting to complain about the temperature of his quarters, and an older man who seemed to think he was approaching General Grumman's office, not Colonel Mustang's.

Hughes heard footsteps approaching from farther down the hallway, and he sighed. He was getting tired of making up excuses to keep people from going into Mustang's office, and tired of people fighting him on it. It was getting to be too much. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

"Hello, sir," a young man said, turning the corner and immediately locking eyes with Hughes. "I have some information for Colonel Mustang. This is his office, right?"

"It is," Hughes said. "But unfortunately, the Colonel is extremely busy right now, and he cannot accept face-to-face meetings. I can take messages for him though, and make sure he gets any information that you tell me as soon as he has a spare moment."

"No," the man said. He looked nervous now, he wasn't making eye contact with Hughes and his hands were twining nervously. "This is...this is directly from General Grumman. I need to talk to the Colonel. Please, don't you think he could spare even a minute?"

"What is it about?"

"Well, I have these new seating plans he needs to look over before tonight…."

"I can give him those," Hughes said, grabbing the handful of papers out of the young man's hand before he could protest. "Just tell me anything he needs to know, and I'll make sure they're signed off on and returned to the General."

"It's not just that," the kid said. "The General also said...he said there's going to be this ceremonial wine-drinking after the dinner, and he's assigned Colonel Mustang to be the one to lead it. I have some things I need to discuss with him, and I have something he's supposed to sign that I am absolutely not supposed to return to Grumman without-"

"I'm sorry, but that's not going to be possible right now," Hughes said. "Like I said before, it's just really not a good time for him. But you can leave anything with me, and I'll make sure to tell him everything…."

"No," the kid said again, starting to sound a little panicked now. "Grumman said I _had_ to talk to the Colonel, and make sure he knew exactly what he was supposed to do and was okay with it. I can't just go back to the General's office and tell him that I didn't even _see_ Colonel Mustang, I'll lose my job. Don't you understand that this is coming directly from the General? I'm sure anything else that he's doing can wait, I…."

"I'll talk to him," Hughes said carefully. He just needed to stall for a few moments, so he could make a plan with Riza. He wanted to keep turning the kid away, but if the orders really did come directly from Grumman, he couldn't exactly have the General sniffing around Mustang's office….

Hughes opened the door and snuck in as quickly as he could. Mustang had his head down on the desk again, and Riza was standing behind him, holding a stack of paperwork which she was signing furiously.

"Hughes, thank god you're here," she said, barely looking up from what she was doing. "Do you think you could get me some cold water? I want to put a cloth on his forehead to try and bring his temperature down, his fever is spiking again-"

"Someone needs to see him," Hughes hissed. That got her to look up, and she stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

"Can't you keep him out?" she asked, lowering her voice.

Hughes bristled. What did she think he'd been trying to do? "No, I can't." Hughes tried to keep himself from snapping at her. "Direct orders from Grumman, it'll look really suspicious if we don't let him in…"

Riza let out a long breath and nodded. "Alright, send him in." She tapped Mustang on his uninjured shoulder, and he looked up from the desk blearily.

"Maes," he said vaguely, apparently just now realizing that his friend was in the room.

"Yeah, buddy, it's me. Can you focus for just a minute? Someone needs to talk to you, about some sort of seating for tonight. Can you do that?"

Mustang squinted, as though he was trying to decode what Hughes was saying. He shook his head slightly, then looked back to Hughes.

"Yeah," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I'll talk to him."

"He seems pretty flustered," Hughes said, grinning at his friend. "Shouldn't be too hard to intimidate him and send him packing as soon as possible."

He was rewarded with a weak smile from Mustang, who straightened slightly in his chair. "Alright. Send him in."

* * *

Mustang blinked at the anxious young soldier fidgeting across the desk. He'd introduced himself as Sergeant something-or-other, in a frantic mumble that was too quick for Mustang's dazed brain to catch. He was actually twitching with nervous energy, and Mustang ordinarily would have had trouble keeping a straight face. Now, he was just grateful that the boy was preoccupied enough not to notice how slow Mustang was processing his hurried words.

"General Grumman would like you to look over the seating plans for tonight," the young soldier babbled, shoving a sheaf of paperwork towards Mustang. Mustang took it carefully, trying not to let on how much pain he was in.

"In addition, there are some changes made to the wine ceremony…."

Mustang lost the thread of the conversation, and elected to just sit there, nodding sagely at occasional intervals. Riza was still hovering behind him, she would tell him if he'd missed anything important.

The kid finally seemed to be wrapping up, and now he was giving Mustang another piece of paper…and asking for his signature.

Mustang bit back a groan. He did not want to move his shoulder right now, he didn't really want to move it ever again. The pain seemed to be increasing with every passing minute, and signing the papers had been bad enough fifteen minutes ago. But it was just one paper, he could handle one paper.

He couldn't afford not to.

Mustang gripped the pen carefully and, squeezing his eyes closed, signed the bottom of the paper. He managed not to make any sound, but only just. Behind his closed eyes, he saw spots.

Across the desk, Sergeant Whatshisname hadn't noticed a thing. He stood up, thanking Mustang profusely. Mustang gave him a tight nod in return, unable to manage speaking.

The kid crossed the room, turned at the door, and - oh god no, damn this overeager bastard to hell - raised his arm in a salute. Gritting his teeth, Mustang raised his shoulder a few inches, enough to hurt like hell but not enough to make him scream, and gave the kid a half-hearted salute. His eager footsteps disappeared down the hall, and Mustang dropped his arm with a pathetic groan.

As soon as the young soldier was gone, Mustang heard Riza start murmuring frantically to Hughes in the corner. He couldn't catch all of what she was saying, but he heard a few phrases, "...seems so out of it…," "...hope he doesn't go to Grumman…," "...not sure about dinner tonight…." Mustang groaned a little. He knew he had seemed out of it when he was talking to the kid, but he had thought he pulled it off okay. But if Riza was worried about the Sergeant going to Grumman….

"Did I do alright?" he mumbled, staring down at the table. Immediately, Riza stopped talking, and he heard the sound of both her and Hughes' footsteps.

"You did fine," she said softly. "Don't worry about that, whatever happens we'll...we'll make it work. I'm going to go get that cool water now, see if I can bring your fever down some…." He heard her shift slightly, turning back towards Hughes. "Don't let anyone else in. I don't care what it takes, just don't let anyone else see him."

Riza's footsteps retreated. Mustang continued staring down at the table, wishing the world would stop blurring in and out in front of him. Alternate flashes of hot and cold were racing across his skin, and he could feel a single bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He heard Hughes shift around a little, so he was standing right behind him. He felt the slight pressure of Hughes' hands on the back of his chair.

"Did I do something wrong?" Mustang asked, voice cracking some. His throat really was dry, he wished he was confident he'd be able to keep down water because he did think it would help.

"Of course not," Hughes said. "You did great, he probably didn't even suspect anything-"

Hughes put his hand on Mustang's shoulder in a way that he probably hoped was comforting. But the motion was apparently so automatic to Hughes that he forgot to check himself beforehand, and all of a sudden his hand was clapping down on Mustang's right shoulder, the one where the wound was.

Instantly, Mustang's world bloomed black. He cried out, he couldn't help it. Red hot pain licked up the wound, radiating down his arm and through his side, so intense it stole his breath away. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed anymore. He made another small, pained sound in the back of his throat. Part of him wondered if he was about to faint. Part of him wondered if maybe he had fainted already.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry Roy!" Hughes' hand was on his other shoulder now, gripping it firmly in an effort to apologize. Mustang wanted to tell him that it was okay, but the only thing he could force past his lips was a small agonized whimper.

"I'm so sorry," Hughes said again, sounding deeply remorseful. Mustang still couldn't pull himself together enough to speak, but he didn't want his friend to think he was angry. Hughes didn't have to help him. Gasping for breath, letting each exhalation out with a slight whine of pain, Mustang reached his left hand up to Hughes' and held on for dear life.

He let his hand stay there until his breathing had evened out and the pain in his shoulder had subsided to its usual dull ache.

"God, Roy, I didn't mean...I'm sorry…." Hughes removed his hand from Mustang's shoulder as Mustang let his left hand fall back to the desk.

"It's okay," Mustang mumbled. "Really. Course you didn't mean it."

"Still," Hughes said miserably. "You have enough to worry about without almost passing out because your best friend is a thoughtless idiot."

"It's good practice," Mustang said, carefully twisting around to face Hughes. "Grumman has taken to slapping me on the back recently. I think it makes him feel younger." He tried to smile, and no matter how pathetic the effort was, it clearly made Hughes feel better.

Hughes snickered slightly. "If Grumman tries to lay a finger on you, I'll use my body as a shield and take the fall."

Mustang chuckled despite himself. "Maes- think of your family."

Hughes made a mock stoic expression and straightened up, sticking his chest out slightly like some absurd cartoon. "All in the line of duty," he said melodramatically.

Mustang laughed, then broke off with a wince of pain as his shoulder twinged. Hughes' expression changed to one of deep concern. It looked ridiculous when juxtaposed with his ludicrous pose, and Mustang couldn't help but laugh again. He broke off hurriedly when a knock came at the door, and Riza re-entered, carrying a pitcher of water.

* * *

Riza raised an eyebrow at Mustang and Hughes, both of whom were looking oddly guilty. She'd thought she'd heard laughter just before entering, and they'd clearly stopped themselves as she came in.

Not that she begrudged them their laughter. Mustang was clearly miserable, and he would only get worse as the day went on. Anything that could make him feel a little better was something that she approved of. If making Mustang laugh was the only thing Hughes was good for, then she'd be happy to have him around.

Of course, if not for Hughes, then Mustang would most likely be in a hospital by now…. Come to think of it, if not for Hughes, then Mustang wouldn't even be in this mess in the first place. Hughes cared about Mustang, that much had always been obvious, but she wasn't sure she could really trust him to take care of the Colonel. She wasn't sure that Hughes really understood how sick Mustang was, that it wasn't going to be a matter of choosing between the and his comfort, but between his career and his life.

There was a part of her that knew she was being a little unfair. But Mustang was so pale he looked nearly translucent, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and the dark shadows under his eyes made it look almost like he had been punched. This was not a joke, and she didn't know how she could be expected to think perfectly rationally when he was sitting there looking like he could keel over any minute.

"What are you laughing about?" she asked.

Mustang smiled weakly. "He just...he accidentally hit me on my bad shoulder, and then he was trying to make me feel better, and I...it's hard to explain-"

Riza felt her hands tense slightly at her sides. She could not imagine any situation in which Hughes forgetting Mustang's injury and touching it could ever be funny. But she took a few deep breaths and forced herself to relax. Now was not the time for a confrontation. It would be too much for Mustang if she initiated something like that, he would pass out.

"You didn't run into any of Grumman's people out there, did you?" Hughes asked.

Riza shook her head. "No, I didn't see anyone. And no one else came by here?"

"No."

"Alright," Riza said, pulling out her watch. "We have...about twenty minutes before you need to start getting ready for the dinner. I'm going to try to bring your fever down some, and then you should see if you can get a little rest."

Mustang nodded slowly. He really did look sleepy, they would have to figure out some way to perk him up before the dinner. But they could deal with that later.

Riza pulled a piece of cloth out of her pocket, and dipped it in the cool water she had brought back. Then she walked over to the desk and knelt down in front of the Colonel. She started gently mopping off his face, trying to cool him down and bring a little color back to his greyish skin.

"Stop, wait, what are you doing?" he whispered, reaching his left hand up and trying to weakly push her away.

"Stay still, sir," she said, pressing the cloth into his forehead. "I need to get your fever down."

"I don't have a fever," he mumbled.

She frowned slightly. Even through the cloth, she could feel the unhealthy heat radiating off his skin. "Sir-"

"It's freezing," he said agitatedly, trying again to grab the edge of the cloth and peel it off his face. "It's...this is too cold for me…."

"It'll make you feel better," Hughes chipped in from his position behind Mustang, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "Give it a try, huh?"

Mustang shook his head weakly, but he let his hand fall from the edge of the cloth. His eyes slipped closed, and Riza shot Hughes a grudgingly grateful expression.

After a few minutes, the cloth was warm, heated by Mustang's feverish skin. Riza pulled the cloth off his forehead and went to cool it again, but Mustang shook his head.

"Don't," he mumbled pleadingly. "I...I just feel so cold…."

Riza checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes to the dinner, they didn't have much time anyway. She laid the cloth down, noting the spark of relief in Mustang's eyes with some dismay. His fever had gotten worse.

"Can I rest now?" Mustang asked sleepily, his eyelids beginning to droop. Hughes opened his mouth, probably to tell Mustang to go ahead, but Riza shook her head, having just realized a new hurdle.

"Sir, you need to be wearing your formal uniform. It's in the closet, everything is ready. You just need to put it on." Riza grabbed the pitcher of water, intending to refill it and hopefully get Mustang to drink _anything._ Before Mustang could protest, she was out the door, doing everything she could to keep him alive long enough to make this gamble worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

Hughes looked at Mustang's stricken expression and patted his friend's (good) shoulder sympathetically. Mustang looked like he was about to cry, pass out, or possibly both. This new hurdle was too much for his exhausted brain to handle.

"Hey, don't worry," Hughes said consolingly. "I'll help you with the uniform. Just stay there and rest, okay?"

Mustang nodded gratefully and let his head slip down to the desk. Hughes let go of his shoulder and made his way over to the closet, where the uniform was waiting. Just as Riza had promised, it was ironed, pressed, and ready to wear. Lieutenant Hawkeye was certainly good at her job.

Hughes retrieved the uniform and brought it back over to Mustang's prone form. He examined his friend's current uniform and shrugged. The change of clothes was probably for the best. Mustang's pants were torn and bloody, and the right shoulder of his jacket had started to turn darker as his wound seeped through the bandage. Surely someone would have noticed.

"Hey, Roy, can you sit up for me?" Hughes asked, inwardly cringing at the wording. He sounded like he was talking to a toddler, and ordinarily Mustang would have bitten his head off for "patronizing" him.

But today, Mustang obediently raised his head off the desk and lurched to an upright position. He looked up at Hughes expectantly, waiting to be told what to do.

"I know this is gonna hurt," Hughes told him. "I'll help as much as I can, okay?"

Mustang nodded, eyes ever so slightly unfocused. But when Hughes began to unbutton his friend's jacket, Mustang moved to help, his left hand fumbling with the buttons.

"Hey, you can just rest for now," Hughes said, swatting his friend's hand away from the jacket.

"I'm alright," Mustang said, continuing to work at the buttons. He blinked, head drifting forward a little bit as if accosted by a sudden wave of dizziness. "I'm alright…."

Hughes silently grabbed Mustang's left hand and deposited it in his lap, then continued unbuttoning the jacket unimpeded. Once it was udone he started easing it over Mustang's wounded shoulder, trying to be mindful of the place where the blood and pus from the wound was stuck to the fabric. Mustang winced slightly as Hughes worked at the jacket, but didn't react other than that.

Hughes felt his stomach drop a little. Mustang was really out of it. This morning during the parade it was the pain that was the biggest problem, but now, it was the fever. Mustang was struggling to even hold his head up, and Hughes had no idea how he was supposed to make it through an entire dinner.

"How are you feeling now?" Hughes asked cautiously as he continued to peel his jacket off.

"I already told you, Maes, I'm alright-"

"Really, Roy. I need to know what's going on with you. The Lieutenant and I will be at the dinner too, but we need to know what to watch for or we won't know how to help you. You feel worse than this morning, don't you?"

Mustang nodded slowly, avoiding Hughes' gaze. His voice was small. "It's my...head, mostly. And my shoulder-"

"You can sit up through the dinner though, right?"

"Yes, Maes, I can sit up through the dinner." His voice was still weak, but he sounded a little irritated now. Hughes thought it had been a valid question. Mustang was leaning heavily on both the back and arm of the chair, and Hughes suspected if either of them were removed Mustang would fall.

Hughes eyed him skeptically. "Do you think you can actually _eat_ any dinner?"

"No," Mustang said, shaking his head vehemently. "I...I don't need to eat anything, do I Maes? I didn't think that was part of it…."

"Just...try to look like you're at least picking at your food," Hughes said, frowning slightly. "So it won't be suspicious."

"Okay," Mustang mumbled, dropping his eyes. "I'll try."

He didn't sound at all convincing, and Hughes felt his own stomach twist a little. He didn't think he'd be eating much at the dinner either.

* * *

Riza knocked on the door again, but didn't wait to be told to enter before she hurried into the office. Mustang was sitting at the desk again, dressed in his formal uniform. He was swaying slightly in his chair, breathing heavily, eyes closed in pain. Hughes was hovering behind him, hand placed lightly on his uninjured shoulder.

"Breathe, Roy," Hughes said encouragingly. "Come on."

Mustang squeezed his eyes tighter and managed to steady his breathing slightly. Hughes patted his shoulder firmly and pulled his hand away.

Riza stepped forward with the water. "Sir, can you drink anything?"

Mustang shook his head miserably. "No."

"Please try, sir, I think it'll make you feel better," Riza said, shooting Hughes a desperate glance. Mustang seemed to listen to him, maybe he could get him to drink something.

Hughes caught her eye and nodded. "Come on, Roy, just one sip…"

Mustang shook his head again, but more half-heartedly this time. He was wavering.

"One sip, sir," Riza cajoled, pouring the water into a glass and handing it to him. He took it, fingers trembling slightly. She watched, worried that he would drop it, but he tightened his grip and raised it carefully to his lips.

Riza and Hughes watched with bated breath as Mustang drank. Riza frowned as he tilted the glass, allowing barely any water to pass his lips. He swallowed carefully and sat for a moment, then raised the glass again. He took another few sips, then set the glass on the table.

Riza frowned again. The water level in the glass had barely decreased at all, Mustang had hardly drank anything. She opened her mouth to ask Mustang if he could drink any more, but Hughes grinned widely and ruffled Mustang's hair.

"Good job, Roy!"

Mustang smiled weakly, looking inordinately proud of himself. Riza considered arguing, but a glance at her watch showed her that it was almost time for the banquet.

"Alright, Colonel, are you going to be able to stand up?" she asked him. Abruptly, she was rather unsure, and him being completely unable to walk under his own power would make this entire thing impossible. She swallowed hard.

"Where is the feast being held?" he asked.

"What?"

"I mean…," he hesitated slightly, "how far of a walk is it?"

Riza frowned a little. "It's going to be held in the third conference room, sir. Not a very long walk. Do you...do you think you can make it?"  
Mustang closed his eyes carefully. It appeared that he was doing some very careful calculations beneath his closed lids. Finally, he nodded slightly.

"I can make it."

He put his left hand on the desk and began using it to leverage himself to his feet. Riza grabbed his good shoulder to steady him, and Hughes was around his other side just as fast, taking some of his weight. Mustang wobbled dangerously as he struggled to catch his balance, and emitted a low groan as his shoulder was jostled slightly. But he was standing, and when Riza and Hughes let go he was still standing. And that, Riza supposed, was the most that they could ask for.

Riza glanced at her watch again. "Major Hughes, you should go on ahead. They'll be waiting for you already, and there's no reason for you to be late. I'll bring the Colonel, don't worry about that."

Hughes hesitated briefly, looking like he wanted to fight her on it. But then he nodded, and left the room. Riza turned her attention back towards Mustang.

"Alright, sir, are you ready?"

"Do I...do I look alright?"

Riza swallowed down a smile. Only the Colonel would be so worried about his appearance at a time like this, when he was nearly too sick to stand and just trying to make it through the next few hours without collapsing.

But then she looked over at him, and realized that the question was likely as much about not drawing attention to himself as it was about his pride. She had gotten somewhat used to his appearance, seeing him so much over the past few hours, but he really did not look good. His skin was pale with a faint greyish cast to it, his eyes were hollow and dull. He was so sweaty the collar of his uniform was already clinging to him a little, and his hair was pasted awkwardly to his forehead. Someone who didn't know him might think he was simply rather a mess, but anyone who had seen him before would be able to tell that he was ill.

"Well?" Mustang asked with mounting desperation, weakly pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. Riza looked at him and sighed.

"Would you like me to slick your hair back and get it out of your face?" she asked, as gently as she could. Mustang nodded unhappily, and she glanced at her watch again. They still had a little time, and it would probably make the Colonel look more presentable. She didn't have any hair gel, but his hair was sweaty enough at this point that it would stay where she put it. She combed his hair back quickly, then shooed him out of the office toward the banquet hall.

* * *

Mustang concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, a little alarmed at how much harder it was now than it had been this morning at the parade. He was only trying to walk to a room a few minutes away, he could make it easily. But every step sent a spear of pain through his shoulder and twisted his stomach viciously. Not to mention the tipping motion that the hallway seemed to be making around him. He was worried that he would fall, and not even Riza hovering behind him could catch him in time.

But somehow, he made it to the banquet without falling on his face, or even unduly alarming anyone that he passed. He slipped into the room as quietly as he could, letting Riza take the lead. His eyes felt far too unfocused to find his name on the table, but Riza would do it for him. She always would.

Riza stopped walking, and Mustang almost ran into her back, stopping himself just in time. She nodded to the seat on the right of the one she was standing behind. Mustang pulled the chair out and slumped gracelessly into the seat, noting with dismay that an Aerugan sat on his other side.

Thank god he'd already met the man, he wouldn't have to shake hands. Mustang thought that if he had to move his shoulder now, he'd pass out. Or throw up. Either one was a distinct, and unpleasant, possibility.

Hoping to deter the Aerugan beside him from conversation, Mustang turned his attention to the place setting across from him. To his relief, his bleary gaze was answered with a worried look from Hughes. He couldn't deny that Hughes' presence was comforting. Besides, he would have to endure less small talk.

"So, Lieutenant Colonel…."

Damn it.

Mustang turned back to the Aerugan man beside him and did his best to smile. He would rather moan and crumple into his empty plate, but he thought that might be suspicious. Smiling it was.

"How long have you been serving in East City?" the man asked, smiling back. Mustang blinked. The question required thought. He knew the answer, he knew this wasn't even a particularly hard question, but he couldn't quite find the words.

"About two years," Riza said firmly. Mustang nodded, trying to appear as though he knew what was going on.

"This is my aide," he said, hoping that the man would leave him alone and talk to Riza. "Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye."

The Aerugan nodded, but seemed unimpressed. He returned his attention to Mustang and prepared himself to ask another question. Mustang swallowed hard. Beneath the table, he felt Riza gently touch his leg, just a comforting reminder that she was there.

"Do you enjoy working here in the East?"

Mustang blinked slowly at the man, forcing his addled brain to process the question. _Just say something. Anything._

"I do like working here," Mustang finally said. "The weather is pleasant most of the year, but it can get a little hot in the summer sometimes. And it doesn't rain that often, which is good because I don't like rain very much. Makes my alchemy not work. It's hard to make a spark when your gloves are all wet."

Mustang lifted his left hand up, meaning to show off the gloves, but found that his hand was bare. He stared at it for a second, surprised, then decided the best course of action would be to wiggle his fingers.

He felt Riza squeeze his leg slightly. He suspected she was trying to send him some sort of signal, but he was altogether too tired to try to figure out what it might mean. He put his hand back down on his lap and tried to remember what he'd been talking about. Something about living in the East.

"The weirdest part about living in the East is definitely that it's so close to Ishval. You live kind of far away, so I'm not sure you would have heard what happened in Ishval. But it was a big problem, and I...I don't really like living so close to it I don't think. Basically there was this group of people, and the government, um, they thought they might do an uprising, so all these alchemists were sent in to just sort of get rid of them. I was there, it was pretty-"

"Sir," Riza said firmly.

Mustang stopped speaking immediately, staring at her, trying to figure out what it was that she was referring to. She was looking at him with an expression of vague horror on her face. He couldn't remember what it was that he'd said.

"Anyway-"

Mustang was interrupted by the arrival of dinner itself. A waiter set a plate down in front of him, and he immediately forgot whatever he'd been talking about before. Mustang hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours now, and this was the nicest food he would have access to for months, far beyond what his paycheck could support. He wished the thought of eating didn't make his stomach turn over. It would be nice if he could force something down.

Mustang saw Hughes eyeing him from across the table. Hughes looked anxious. That made Mustang kind of sad, he didn't want Hughes to be anxious. He tried to smile a little, so Hughes would think he was alright. He wasn't sure how well it worked.

The Aerugan next to him shot him an odd look, but began eating. Thank god, Mustang wasn't sure that he should continue talking to the man much longer. Riza and Hughes both seemed worried, which probably meant he was doing something wrong.

Mustang looked back at his dinner. Everyone around him was eating now, and he knew he'd draw attention to himself without at least _looking_ like he was eating. And it wasn't like he wasn't hungryt, he was starving. But as much as he wanted to eat, he wanted to avoid throwing up more. He had a horrible suspicion that the only thing keeping him from throwing up was that there was nothing in his stomach _to_ throw up.

Mustang picked up his fork in his left hand and poked at his food sadly. He shoved the rice around his plate, trying to look like he was just about to take a bite of the expensive and no doubt delicious dinner.

"The meat is quite savory," the pesky Aerugan said to him. "You should try some."

Mustang blinked at him in horror, his foggy brain struggling to decipher what he'd said. Finally, he decided just to nod and smile. Before the Aerugan could say anything else, he turned to Riza and looked at her with desperation in his eyes.

Riza leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Sir, could you try to eat something? Anything?"

Mustang wasn't sure what she'd said. To buy himself more time, he nodded enthusiastically. She looked surprised, but pleased. Maybe he'd done the right thing?

"You can eat something?" she asked. He frowned, finally processing what she'd said.

"I'm sorry," he muttered to her. "I can't. I…." he trailed off, glancing at his plate in frustration. He wished he could eat, he really did. But his stomach was coiled in pain, telling him in no uncertain terms that that was not an option.

Next to him, the Aerugan diplomat poked his arm, and Mustang stiffened. He didn't want anyone touching his right arm, not so dangerously close to the shoulder. As out of it as he was, he knew that wasn't good.

"Excuse me, Colonel Mustang, but are you going to eat that?"

Mustang squeezed his eyes shut and forced his tired brain to process. His eyes flew open, and he shook his head slightly at the older man. He instantly regretted the motion as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to stay upright.

"I'm...I'm not hungry," he said, trying not to slur his words.

The Aerugan diplomat shrugged, as if to say "to each his own." He leaned closer, and Mustang resisted the urge to lean back.

"If you're not going to eat it…it seems a shame to let it go to waste…." The Aerugan stared at Mustang, cocking an eyebrow expectantly. Mustang just blinked at him in confusion, too tired and sick to decode subtext.

The Aerugan sighed. "Can I finish it for you?"

Oh. Mustang smiled slightly, the Aerugan having unknowingly solved his biggest worry at the moment. "Be my guest," he said magnanimously, pushing the plate over to the older man.

* * *

Riza touched Mustang's left arm gently, trying to get his attention. He either ignored her or more likely simply didn't notice. He was still staring dazedly at the plate of food he had just given the Auerogan diplomat, in possibly the most distressingly confusing interaction she had ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

"Colonel," she whispered sharply, leaning in close to him. He looked over at her, seeming startled enough that she wasn't sure he had remembered she was there.

"How are you doing?" she breathed. "Do you need to leave?"

He looked at her with an expression of almost wounded shock. "I do not need to leave."

Riza sighed softly. "Do you think you could...stop talking then?"

"What?"

"Colonel, you're...you're not making any sense. If you keep on this way, you're just going to draw attention to yourself. The dinner is almost over, alright? Just...try to stay quiet."

Mustang nodded obediently.

"Did you understand what I just said?"

An expression of confusion appeared briefly on his face, then he shook his head. Riza groaned.

"Just don't say anything," she pleaded, not sure if his fever-addled brain would understand any better the second time around. "Please."

His hair was coming undone a little, and she reached her hand up and surreptitiously slicked it back again. He simply continued to stare at her with glassy eyes.

Riza looked desperately across the table and made eye contact with Hughes. He was watching their interactions with an expression somewhat akin to horror. Riza didn't think Hughes was close enough to be able to hear what she and Mustang were saying to each other, but based on his face Mustang must look pretty bad, even to an outsider. She wondered how the Aerugan diplomats were viewing this whole thing. They must have noticed something, but did they just think the Amestrian military was somewhat of a mess? Would that make this better, or worse?

She glanced over at Mustang. He was looking down at his lap, eyes unfocused, breathing ragged. He didn't look great, but at least he wasn't talking. Maybe Riza could finally turn her attention to her own dinner for a minute….

"No," Mustang said suddenly, and Riza snapped her head up. The Aerugan diplomat must have said something to him, but Riza had missed it. All she could do was pray that "no" had been the right answer.

"No?" the diplomat said, his voice confused and tinged with the possibility of anger. "You don't think it's nice that our two countries finally have the possibility of better relations?"

Riza resisted the urge to bury her head in her hands. But she didn't. She simply turned towards the Colonel and the diplomat, mind spinning as she tried to figure out what she could do to salvage the situation.

"No," she said quickly. "That isn't what he meant. He's just unhappy that it's _only_ a possibility, that the relations didn't improve years ago…."

"He does not require an aide to speak for him, he can speak for himself," the Aerugan said sharply.

Riza bristled, and even as fevered and ill as he was, she felt Mustang stiffen beside her. She swallowed hard, trying to think of anything to say.

Luckily, they were interrupted by the doors opening, revealing waiters bearing cups of wine. Riza stared at them blankly, trying to remember what the next part of the ceremony was.

At the head of the table, Grumman stood. "And now a toast, to celebrate such a pleasant and successful dinner with our Aerugan friends. Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, if you would lead us?"

Riza felt her stomach drop. From the look on his face, Mustang was equally horrified by the news. Which at least meant he had understood it…. That was a good sign, right?

Mustang turned to her, his eyes large and pleading. She gave him a semi encouraging nod, hoping that he would be able to pull himself together, even a little.

Otherwise, everything was going to end right here.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N -** So sorry this took so long to get posted! I've been on vacation, and very busy with work. But don't worry - the whole thing is already written, there's no chance of it getting abandoned. There's going to be two more chapters after this one! Thanks for reading!

* * *

Hughes watched his friend push himself to his feet and clenched his fists beneath the table. Mustang could do this, he had to do this, it was just a little wine.

But he hadn't eaten a single bite of his dinner, and he'd said he'd been nauseous for over a day. Hughes had come to realize, from painful experience, that when Mustang said he was nauseous, it was better not to make him put anything substantial in his stomach. He'd only end up throwing it up, which would make him miserable and hard to deal with. Hughes wasn't sure what would happen if Mustang tried to drink wine, but he didn't think it would be pretty.

Across the table, Riza urgently whispered something into Mustang's ear. Hughes watched, a little upset. He should be sitting with them, he knew exactly how to handle Roy when he was like this, god knows he'd done it plenty of times before.

But it wasn't him sitting with Mustang, it was Hawkeye, so he just had to hope that she knew what to say.

Mustang rose unsteadily to his feet and raised the glass (left-handed). Hughes winced slightly, hoping no one would notice. Was Grumman observant enough to remember that Mustang was right-handed? He had no idea. Once again, all he could do was hope for the best. Around him, the company was standing and raising their own glasses. Hughes joined them.

Mustang cleared his throat and raised his voice as well as he was able. "To Aerugo and Amestris," he said, and lifted the glass to his lips.

Hughes shrugged internally. It could have been worse. The toast was a bit short, but it was far better than the rambling nonsense he'd feared. Riza had come through. Now, all Mustang had to do was drink the wine and keep it down.

Mustang downed the wine in one gulp, like a shot. Hughes suppressed a groan, and looked around at the other people at the table. The Amestrians looked confused, but the Aerugan diplomats nodded and raised their own glasses. One by one, they all gulped the ceremonial wine, nodding and smiling at this odd Amestrian custom. Hughes chuckled softly and drank his own wine, setting the glass down on the table and looking back at Mustang.

His friend was still standing, clutching the back of his chair and swaying slightly as he stared determinedly at the floor. Hughes knew that look, and it meant trouble. Even from here, he could see the muscles in Mustang's throat working as he fought to suppress his painfully high gag reflex.

The Amestrians and the Aerugans began streaming towards the door, chatting quietly among themselves. Hughes stayed behind, skirting around the table until he could get to Mustang. Riza stood beside him, looking worried and slightly confused.

Hughes didn't have time to explain the situation to her. There were still Aerugans in the room, he couldn't have Mustang throwing up in front of the foreign dignitaries.

He made it to Mustang's side and latched onto his uninjured shoulder. He leaned forward and spoke quietly into Mustang's ear, low enough that only Mustang (and possibly Riza) could hear him.

"Come on, Roy, don't throw up just yet. You can do it, I know you can…. Just a little longer, Roy. They're almost gone."

Mustang gagged slightly and Hughes moved his hand to his friend's back and began rubbing it in gentle circles. "You can do it, Roy, come on…."

Hughes shot a frantic glance at the door, where the last Aerugan was exiting. The Amestrians were gone too.

Moving quickly, Hughes looped his arm around Mustang's waist and used his other hand to grab Mustang's left wrist. Before Mustang could protest, or trigger his gag reflex, Hughes was already dragging him across the room.

"I've got you, Roy," he said, heading for a potted plant on the wall. It wasn't too far, Mustang could make it, surely. "Just hold on a little longer, 'kay?"

He heard Mustang gag again, and quickened his pace slightly. He was dimly aware of Riza hovering around him, but he ignored her. It was his turn to help Mustang, she'd gotten him through the dinner and the least he could do was stop his friend from throwing up all over the ceremonial room.

Mustang tugged his left hand free of Hughes' grip and raised it to his mouth. Beneath Hughes' other hand, he felt the muscles of Mustang's back convulse. He knew he had a matter of seconds.

"Come on, just a little further," Hughes said. "Just hang on another second, please…."

He thrust his friend forward the last few steps, then put a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him to kneel. Mustang dropped quickly to his knees, wrapping his left hand around the ceramic edge of the pot. His knuckles were white, hand shaking. Hughes moved his hand to Mustang's back, knowing that he hated this part and that his presence was the only thing that would make it a little easier.

Hughes felt Mustang's back tense again, and he retched. He brought most of the wine up in a single, sickening movement. Hughes rubbed Mustang's back in careful motions as his friend sucked in a few panicked breaths and then began to cough up more of the wine.

"You're alright, it's almost over, you'll feel so much better when this is done," Hughes said absentmindedly, just trying to remind Mustang that he was there.

Riza moved to kneel beside Mustang, and she put a hand on his uninjured shoulder. She watched as Mustang continued to retch painfully, vomiting up occasional mouthfuls of wine or stomach acid. She pressed her shoulder up against his, taking some of his weight so he didn't need to expend so much energy on simply staying upright.

"I don't...want this anymore…." Mustang finally gasped, panting as he tried to recover his breath.

"I know you don't, but you're gonna be alright," Hughes said.

Riza looked up at Hughes with wide, panicked eyes. " _Is_ he going to be alright?" Riza mouthed.

Hughes nodded. He had seen Mustang throw up plenty of times. He always acted like this, completely miserable and pathetic, but it had no bearing at all on his eventual recovery. As much as Mustang insisted he was never drinking again, or declared he had moved into the bathroom, he was always fine as soon as he had gotten some fluids into him and was properly distracted.

Riza frowned slightly and looked back at her superior officer. His stomach had finally seemed to calm down, and now he was simply leaning over the potted plant and trembling as he fought to get his breath back.

Hughes smiled broadly. "Hey, you did a really good job, buddy. I thought for sure you were gonna throw up in front of all those Aerugans, but you didn't. I'm really proud of you."

He ruffled Mustang's hair gently. Mustang still looked thoroughly miserable, but he was shaking a little less and he smiled at Hughes' praise.

"You pulled it off," Hughes said happily, already beginning to breathe a little easier. Now, all that remained was to get Mustang through the night. There were a few meetings the next morning, but they shouldn't be too hard to bluff their way through. Even as bad as Mustang was shaping up to be, the meetings didn't actually require _talking_ to anyone. They would get through this, despite all odds.

Beside him, Riza also seemed to relax a little, releasing some of the tension they'd had ever since realizing quite how bad Mustang was. True, he was still bent over a plant, heaving slightly with every ragged breath, but they didn't have to fool anybody else. Now, they could just focus on making him feel better.

Hughes got to his feet and hauled Mustang up after him. He released his friend and eyed him carefully, making sure he was steady on his feet. Mustang swayed disconcertingly, and Hughes took his left elbow to support him.

"Let's get you back to your office, okay, Roy?" Hughes said to Mustang. He turned back toward Riza. "Is that gonna be a good place to spend the night?"

Riza nodded hesitantly. "Yes…no one should come in, we can lock the door…."

"Great," Hughes said. He turned to Mustang, whose head was drooping down onto his chest. Hughes shook him lightly, alarmed and trying not to show it.

"Roy?" Mustang hauled his head up and blinked weakly at Hughes, but didn't answer. Hughes figured that this was the best he was going to get.

"Are you tired?" Hughes asked Mustang, hoping to get an answer. Mustang blinked slowly at him in response, then nodded once.

"You can sleep on the couch, sir," Riza said from behind them. She stepped forward and began to lead the way out of the room.

* * *

Mustang let his eyes slide closed, and Hughes followed Riza, taking as much of Mustang's weight as he could. Mustang shuffled forward slightly, and Hughes was thankful that he didn't have to drag his friend through the hallways of Eastern Command. Even though most of the soldiers were no doubt gone by now, there were sure to be some stragglers. Mustang looked horrible, pale and sweaty with dark purplish black circles underneath his eyes. But at least he was walking on his own.

Mustang stumbled along beside Hughes, no longer bothering to keep his head from sinking to his chest. He was just so tired, and he could barely keep his eyes open and his feet moving. His mouth tasted like stomach acid and wine, and he was still nauseous enough that he was worried he would start dry heaving again if he moved wrong. His head was throbbing weakly, it was easier to just rest it like this, it didn't hurt so bad if he kept his eyes closed….

Riza said something to him. He couldn't make out what it was. She repeated it. He managed to lift his head off his chest and peer weakly at her. Her eyes were concerned. He blinked slowly, trying to prove to her that he was listening.

"Sir, are you cold?" she said gently. "You're shaking."

Mustang closed his eyes, trying to figure out what she was saying so he could answer. He swallowed hard, wishing everything hurt a little less, that the world felt a little less spinny. He wasn't even sure if he was cold or not. He might be very hot, all he knew was that his skin felt _wrong._

He looked blearily down at his hands, and Riza was right, they were trembling pretty badly. So maybe he was cold after all.

"Yeah," he finally said, impressed that he had managed to follow a train of thought all the way to its conclusion.

Riza patted him gently on the shoulder. "We'll try and get you some blankets once we get to your office."

Mustang nodded, and they kept stumbling forward. Hughes was at his side, he had a hand on his back and one on his arm. Mustang tried not to lean on him too much, but it was hard. He was just so sleepy, and his arms and legs felt weak and heavy. Everything hurt.

"Can we...rest for a minute?" he finally asked. The world was swirling dangerously, pulsing in and out of focus, and he was a little afraid if he didn't sit down he was going to pass out.

"Yes," Riza said. "Major Hughes, see if you can help him sit down…."

Mustang felt his shaky legs start to give way beneath him, and he clutched frantically at Hughes.

"No," Hughes said. "We're...we're not technically supposed to be here, we can't just be found wandering the hallways. We need to get to his office."

"But…"

"Roy, do you think you can make it to your office?" Hughes whispered. "It's only another minute or two. Please, Roy, come on, you can do it."

"I…" The ground tilted beneath Mustang, and he reeled weakly against Hughes. He felt Hughes' arms go around him, taking some of his weight. Mustang willed the dark spots away from his vision and focused on keeping his knees from buckling.

"Come on, Roy, you can do it-"

"Major." This was Riza's voice, sharp. "Can't you see he needs rest? He's going to faint, you need to let him sit down-"

"And if we get discovered this whole thing is up! He can keep going, can't you Roy?"

Mustang nodded, but he had already forgotten the question. He grasped desperately at the front of Hughes' uniform, trying to stay on his feet. He felt Hughes' arm wrap around him more securely, taking more of his weight, but he still wasn't sure he would be able to stay upright.

"Come on, buddy, only a little bit farther-"

"Major, he needs to rest-"

"You're doing fine-"

"Sir, are you alright?"

His friends' voices washed over him as he struggled to put one foot in front of the other. He was swaying alarmingly, but there were hands supporting him and he could make it, Hughes was telling him that he could make it.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped moving and he heard a door open. His head was still sunk on his chest, and he made no effort to look up.

Hughes prodded him forward, and Mustang suppressed a groan as he shuffled into the room. He let Hughes steer him onto a couch, where he collapsed gratefully. Above him, Hughes sighed in relief.

"Nice job, Roy." He felt Hughes' hand ruffle his hair again. "Get some sleep, huh?"

Mustang looked blearily up at Hughes and nodded. He would sleep, and everything would seem better in the morning. If only he could stop shivering….

* * *

Riza looked at Mustang, grey-faced and barely conscious, and fought the urge to put a bullet in Hughes' shoulder. Mustang was clearly exhausted, in pain, and near delirious. Hughes had pushed him to the limit by making him walk all the way to his office without a rest. Now, Mustang was breathing heavily and barely responding to either of them. Sweat stood out on his forehead, but he was shivering violently.

Riza settled for a disapproving shake of her head and decided to do something about the Colonel's shivering. She turned to Mustang, not trusting herself to speak civilly to Hughes.

"Sir, I'm going to find some blankets. Will you be alright until I get back?"

Mustang's eyes flickered open and he stared blankly in her general direction. She repeated herself, earning a vague nod from Mustang and a dirty look from Hughes. She smiled at the former, ignored the latter, and set off to get the bedding.

Riza came back into the office without bothering to knock. Hughes had drawn up a chair by Mustang's couch, and as she came in, she found him pushing Mustang's sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"You're gonna be okay, Roy," he said. Mustang didn't really seem to be listening, but Hughes said it anyway. Despite herself, Riza felt some of her anger dissipate.

Some, but not all. Mustang wasn't going to be okay, not if Hughes kept convincing him to push himself harder and go further for their deception. But for the first time, Riza realized that Hughes was likely just as worried as she was.

Riza cleared her throat awkwardly, and Hughes finished brushing Mustang's hair back and turned to her.

"We should be alright here, at least for a while," Riza said. "The building should be mostly empty at this point, although one of us should go around in an hour or two just to check. He should be able to sleep here."

Riza walked slowly to the sofa Mustang was sitting on and knelt beside him. "Hey," she said softly. He managed to focus on her, but it took an alarmingly long time.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he said quietly. Riza made an almost imperceptible sound in the back of her throat. She hadn't realized he still knew who she was.

"Colonel," she said. She saw his eyes drifting away from her again, so she reached out and took his hand, trying to help remind him that she was still there. 'Do you think you could sleep for a little bit? Why don't you lie down?"

He shook his head firmly.

"Sir," she said patiently, sure he had misunderstood the question, "why don't you try to get some rest? We should be able to stay here for a while."

"Can't," he said, voice weak.

"You can't get some rest?"

"Too…" She felt his hand shift slightly under hers as he fought for the words. "Too...everything hurts too much…."

Riza felt her stomach tighten in sympathy. The Colonel was greyish with pain. She didn't even want to think about what the fever was doing to his body at this point, and he had the wound itself on top of it. He still looked completely exhausted, but no wonder he wouldn't be able to get any actual sleep. His best chance at getting some rest would probably be if he managed to pass out.

"I can get you some medicine," Riza said. "It'll bring your fever down for a little while, and help your shoulder some. Would you like that?"  
He shook his head. Riza frowned slightly. "You don't want that?"

"Can't swallow it."

Riza looked at him sharply, concerned. If he couldn't even keep down water…. But she needed to try. "Sir, please, just try it. You'll feel better if you can get some sleep, I promise."

Mustang looked rather unconvinced, but he didn't protest again. Riza took the opportunity to duck out of the office without speaking to Hughes, and went in search of medicine for Mustang.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Thanks for being patient! This is the second to last chapter! Sorry it's a little on the short side, the next one will be longer.**

* * *

Hughes refused to look after Riza as the door shut gently behind her. He'd seen the glares she'd been shooting him, it wasn't like she was being overly subtle with her displeasure. He sighed angrily. He was just as worried about Mustang as she was, but he had a better grasp on the severity of the situation than she did. He didn't want to push Mustang any further than he had to, but getting caught now would be disastrous for all of them.

On the couch, Mustang shivered. Hughes put a hand to his forehead and winced at the heat rolling off his skin. Hopefully, whatever medicine Hawkeye was getting would help bring his fever down.

But until then, there wasn't much Hughes could do other than keep Mustang comfortable. He touched Mustang's arm gently, hoping to get his attention.

"Roy?"

Mustang's eyes opened and focused dizzily on Hughes. He mumbled something that Hughes couldn't make out, but he decided to take that as an indication of Mustang's understanding.

"Do you think you could drink any water?" Hughes asked, without much hope. Once Mustang threw up, it was nearly impossible to get him to put anything else in his stomach anytime soon.

Sure enough, Mustang shook his head emphatically.

"Are you sure, Roy?" Hughes asked gently. "It's not like the wine, it's not going to be nearly as hard on your stomach. And it'll make you feel less dizzy, it'll help your head…."

Mustang shook his head again. "It'll make me throw up, Maes," he said pathetically. "I swear…."

Hughes regarded his friend for a few moments. He was well accustomed to determining whether Mustang was being stubborn and melodramatic, or whether he would actually throw up if he tried to drink. Unfortunately, he thought this was the latter. Mustang looked horrible, sweaty and dull-eyed, face drawn with pain.

"Alright," Hughes said finally. "No water for now."

He reached forward and tucked the blanket more firmly around his friend, hoping to ease his shivering some.

"Can I...can I have another blanket though?" Mustang asked. His voice was trembling badly, and Hughes felt his chest constrict a little.

"Roy, I don't know if that's a good idea," Hughes said skeptically. Mustang was radiating enough heat that he felt like Hughes' own personal furnace, and Hughes couldn't imagine that a blanket was going to help anything. "I know you feel cold, but you're burning up…."

Mustang shook his head miserably. "I'm freezing, Maes, I swear…."

"You feel cold, but you're not, I promise you," Hughes said. He tried out a weak smile. "You're all sweaty and gross, Roy, I guarantee that you're not freezing, no matter what it feels like."

Mustang didn't say anything else, just frowned and clawed at the blanket a little bit, trying to draw it tighter. He groaned slightly with the movement. Hughes could only imagine that even the slightest pressure on his shoulder hurt like hell at this point. Hughes hadn't seen the injury itself in hours, not since before the dinner, but at this point he wasn't sure that he wanted to. It must be impossibly swollen by now, his whole shoulder was probably shiny and pink….

"You're going to be alright," Hughes said firmly, trying to convince himself as much as his friend. "Just wait for Hawkeye, she'll be back soon and she'll have medicine for you. Don't worry."

Mustang mumbled something unintelligible, but he looked so weak that Hughes didn't have the heart to ask him to repeat it. He just smoothed Mustang's damp hair back from his face again, trying to get it out of his eyes.

Last time he'd tried that, Mustang had protested, albeit weakly. This time, he just stared at Hughes with glassy, unfocused eyes. It was a testament to how unwell he felt that he didn't mind being cared for like a small child. Hughes swallowed hard. He hoped Riza was hurrying up with the medicine.

As though his thought had summoned her, there was a knock at the door and Riza bustled in, clutching a small paper bag and looking worried. She immediately glanced towards the couch, as if she was expecting Mustang to have somehow vanished.

Mustang blinked slowly at her, clearly not processing her entrance. Hughes felt his stomach twist, and thought he saw a similar expression cross Riza's face.

"I got you some medicine to help you sleep, sir," she said gently. Mustang just kept staring at a spot slightly over her shoulder.

"Roy?" Hughes said, putting his hand on Mustang's uninjured shoulder. No response, and he moved to Mustang's forehead.

"Roy?" he said again, stroking Mustang's forehead gently. Mustang's eyes flickered with recognition, and he blinked.

"What issit, Maes?" he slurred, and Hughes smiled at him cheerily to conceal his worry.

"The Lieutenant got some medicine," Hughes said brightly. "Let's get you up and you can take some, okay? Then you can get some sleep."

"Don' want it," Mustang mumbled, but Hughes was already hauling his friend to a sitting position. Riza was beside him, propping a pillow behind Mustang's back to keep him upright. Mustang flopped back against the pillow, breathing heavily and looking as though he were about to pass out.

But he didn't, and his breathing slowly leveled off. He rolled his head over to look at Hughes, wincing as he did so. Hughes frowned sympathetically, knowing that the pain in his shoulder had to be almost unbearable.

Riza pressed forward, clutching the bottle of pills. She tipped two into her hand and Hughes offered her the glass of water. She took it, and moved towards Mustang.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye is gonna give you some water now, okay?" Hughes said, and Mustang's eyes tracked vaguely across his face. He didn't reply.

"Water," Hughes said, slightly louder. "We need you to take some pills, okay, Roy? Just swallow the water."

Mustang narrowed his eyes, then shook his head slightly. "No," he mumbled.

Hughes was a little relieved that Mustang was fighting him. That probably meant that he knew what was happening.

"Please, Roy. It'll make you feel better. Trust me." Hughes silently willed Mustang to cooperate, idly wondering if they could successfully force the pills down his throat. He didn't think it would work, and he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"No," he whimpered, turning his head to the side, away from Hughes.

"Roy, come on-" Hughes said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. As exhausted and weak as Mustang was, Hughes doubted he was going to get any sleep at all if he didn't get some medication in him to bring his fever down, and Mustang needed sleep more than almost anything else at this point.

"Colonel," Riza said sharply. Then, as Hughes watched, she grabbed his face in her hand and turned him forcefully towards her. "You need this medication, and you are going to take it. I'm giving you a sip of just water now, and the next sip will have the first of the pills in it. You are not to spit it out."  
Hughes' eyes widened slightly. He hadn't realized Riza had it in her to talk to Mustang like that. He'd thought she was too gentle with him, to willing to let him run her over. But maybe he'd read the whole situation wrong. Suddenly, he suspected that Riza had always been the one with the real power here.

She tipped the first sip of water down his throat, and obediently, he swallowed. Immediately, he started coughing and spluttering, and Hughes was a little worried he was going to get sick. But he caught his breath again, and stared up at Riza with betrayal in his eyes.

One pill at a time, she got the rest of the medicine into him. He had some struggle swallowing, even though the pills were small and sandwiched by sips of water. She tried to get him to drink the rest of the glass once she was done, but he could only handle a few sips.

"Please drink more, sir, the fever is dehydrating you-"

"I don't want any," he whined, sinking further into the pillows. Hughes felt a wave of secondhand embarrassment roll over him. He was normally very proud of his capable best friend, and he had rarely seen him look so horribly pathetic. He was glad there was no one else here to see the Lieutenant Colonel like this. He was like a small, petulant child.

"Fine," Riza sighed, setting the water down on the desk. "Maybe we can try again later."

* * *

Mustang sank backwards into the pillows. His head was throbbing. His shoulder felt white-hot. He was shivering miserably under the blanket Hughes had given him, aching with a cold that went all the way down to his bones.

Riza said something to him. He knew she had, but he had forgotten to force the words to take shape, and now he couldn't figure out what it was that she had said.

"What?" he croaked. Even though he had just had water, his throat felt so dry it might as well be made of sandpaper.

"Would you like to lie down again?"

He nodded slightly. He felt Hughes' hand on his good shoulder, and then he was being leaned forward slightly. His stomach twisted unhappily at the movement, and his head pounded sharply. He screwed his eyes shut against the pain, feeling a small whine build low in his throat.

Then he was being laid sideways again, and he blinked slowly, trying to get his vision to focus. Riza was kneeling in front of him.

"You should be able to get some sleep now, sir," she said gently. He blinked at her, the words taking time to filter through the fogginess in his head.

Sleep sounded good, he thought. He was tired, he could feel it in the way the world seemed to spin every time he turned his head. And as long as his shoulder stopped hurting quite so much, as long as his stomach calmed down just a little, he thought he would be able to sleep.

Mustang closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, waiting for the medication to level the nausea in the pit of his stomach. It wouldn't take that long, he told himself. He just had to give it time to work.

"It's not working," he mumbled a few minutes later, trying his best not to whine.

"You have to give it time, buddy," Hughes told him from somewhere above his head.

"No," Mustang said miserably. "I don't like it."

"Try to stick it out, okay?" Hughes said, sounding sympathetic. "It really will help you."

Mustang didn't entirely believe him, but he lapsed into silence. Suddenly, talking seemed like far too much work. He opened his eyes, and his surroundings seemed slightly blurred, as though something was out of focus. He thought it might be him. The medication was starting to do its job after all.

But for all that it was working in one way, Mustang could feel his stomach roiling with every swallow. He was starting to genuinely worry that he was going to throw up.

Mustang tried to tell Hughes what was going on, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a muffled groan. He frowned. That's not what he had meant to happen….

He tried again, but he still couldn't find the words he needed. Hughes looked down at him, and he said something in response, but he might as well have been speaking in Drachman. Mustang blinked at him in dazed confusion, then decided it was too much work to decipher and closed his eyes again. Above him, Hughes continued to talk, but the sounds didn't get strung together into meaning.

Mustang whimpered quietly as his stomach lurched again. He squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to control himself. All he had to do was last long enough to fall asleep. If he had successfully stomached the ceremonial wine, he could do this no problem. He gritted his teeth and tried to breathe deeply.

* * *

Riza eyed Mustang with a sense of relief. The medication seemed to be working at least fairly well. His eyes were closed now, and he looked slightly more relaxed than he had when she'd forced the medicine down his throat. His breathing had been tight with pain ever since the dinner, but now it had eased a little. His shivering had calmed some too, it must have at least brought his fever down a bit. Tentatively, she reached out and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. As she had suspected, he was hot, but not as hot as he had been before.

"Lieutenant," he groaned suddenly, voice weak.

"What is it?" she said quickly, but he didn't respond and his eyes didn't open. He seemed to have periods of relative lucidity mixed with the delirium, and they could come and go between one breath and the next. She continued to stand in front of him. All she had to do was wait for him to rouse a little bit, he would answer the question eventually.

"Is he asleep?" Hughes asked from beside her. Riza shook her head. She could see his eyes flickering restlessly under his closed lids. His arm twitched a little under the blanket like he wanted to move it but lacked the drive or the strength.

"Lieutenant," he finally whispered again.

"What is it, Colonel?" she said softly.

He groaned again, still struggling to find the words he'd been trying to get out for several minutes now. The drugs had really done a number on him. He'd been delirious before, but now it was as if he was moving in slow motion while the rest of them had stayed the same. She watched as he fought to wrench his eyes open, head rocking back and forth uselessly. The whole thing was pitiful.

"Going to...throw up," he whimpered.

"You are not going to throw up, sir," Riza said firmly. To be completely honest, she didn't even think it was possible at this point. There couldn't be much in his stomach aside from pills and a glass of water. The medicine was just messing with his head.

"I...am…."

Riza sighed. She could hear real fear in his voice, as misplaced and pathetic as it was. She didn't want him to worry though, she wanted him to be able to sleep. Silently, she walked to the corner of the office and took the metal trash can that he had there. She set it in front of the sofa, near where his head was. By the time she returned, his eyes had fallen closed again. She tapped his hand to remind him she was there.

"Here, Colonel. I brought you a trash can. Don't worry if you need to be sick."

He made a soft, unintelligible noise to indicate that he heard her. She went to sit in the sofa opposite him. Hughes followed her. She eyed Mustang carefully, hoping his drooping eyelids would close all the way and she and Hughes could get some well earned rest.

* * *

Hughes frowned as Mustang's head lolled back onto the pillow. Something was off about his friend. Sure, he was sick, and now he was drugged, but even apart from that, Hughes thought something was wrong. Hughes had spent years with Mustang, and he knew his best friend.

"Roy? Are you...okay?" Hughes asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice. Hopefully, the drugs had kicked in by now, and Mustang wouldn't even reply. But at the sound of Hughes' voice, Mustang turned blearily towards him and blinked, confused.

Hughes repeated his question, but Mustang just stared at him owlishly. Then, he opened his mouth, and Hughes expected a reply for a split second. Instead, Mustang puked over the side of the couch into the trash can that Riza had placed there.

Hughes moved towards him immediately, expecting Mustang to begin whining. He knew how much his friend hated throwing up, and in this state, he probably wouldn't be able to conceal his displeasure.

But Mustang just lay there, eyes saucer wide and fixed on Hughes. He whimpered a little, then threw up again, mostly making it into the trash can. As before, he didn't try to move, didn't try to stop himself. If Riza hadn't laid him on his side, Hughes thought he probably would have choked.

"Should we get him up?" Hughes said, asking Riza without thinking.

"I don't know," Riza answered, joining him by Mustang's side. "He should be alright, he's on his side. But we should watch him."

That wouldn't be an issue. There was no way Hughes was going anywhere, not until Mustang stopped looking at him with that pathetic pleading in his eyes. Hughes reached out, cupping the back of Mustang's head with his hand. He could give him a little more support, ensure that he wouldn't roll to his back, and comfort him all at once.

"It's okay, Roy," Hughes said soothingly. "I know this sucks, but it'll be over soon."

Mustang's throat muscles worked, and he threw up again, moaning miserably. Hughes rubbed his thumb across Mustang's neck, hoping some part of him could feel the gesture.

Mustang's sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes, and Hughes reached up his free hand to brush it away. Mustang just lay there, eyes still wide and fearful.

He threw up for the fourth time, just stomach acid now, and Hughes saw his face wrinkle as the bile burned his nasal passages. To his horror, he saw tears stand out in Mustang's eyes.

"Aww, Roy, don't cry…. You'll be okay, I'll take care of you, I promise…." As he said it, Hughes was painfully aware that up to now, he hadn't exactly done a great job of taking care of Mustang. But he couldn't focus on that now. He wiped the tears off Mustang's face gently.

Mustang began to sniffle, then coughed as his throat and nose protested. More tears flowed down his face, and Hughes felt something twist deep inside of him. He had seen Mustang miserable before, he had seen him in far more pain than he was in now. But he wasn't sure he had ever seen his best friend this pathetic. The fever and the drugs were making him helpless, and all Hughes wanted to do was to make him better.

Mustang murmured something unintelligible. Hughes wanted to ask him to repeat it, it would make him feel better to know Mustang was still coherent and able to speak. But part of him knew Mustang wasn't even conscious enough for that, he wouldn't be able to answer and his delirious mumblings would just make Hughes more worried.

"Hey, you're alright," Hughes whispered. "Riza and I are here, we'll take care of you, don't worry…."

Mustang began to twist under Hughes' hand, rocking back and forth fitfully, eyes still open and sightless. Hughes bit his lip and moved his hand to Mustang's back. He tried his best to avoid the tender skin around the wound itself, but his first priority was to keep Mustang from rolling onto his back and choking. He felt his fingers accidentally brush the inflamed skin, and Mustang emitted a low moan.

"I'm sorry," Hughes whispered quickly, keeping his hand firmly on Mustang's back. "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm not trying to hurt you, you just need to stay on your side in case you throw up again-"

"Make...it...stop…." Mustang muttered, words so quiet and slurred Hughes almost couldn't be sure he had really heard them. To his horror, Hughes realized he was starting to tear up again.

"Oh my god," Hughes heard Riza whisper from behind him. "I can't believe we did this to him, this is…horrible-"

Hughes craned his neck to look back at Riza. She had a hand covering her mouth, and was staring at Mustang with an expression of mingled pity and horror. Her eyes were wide and guilty.

Hughes made a small noise low in his throat. "No, Lieutenant, this isn't your fault. It's just...I thought this was going to work too, and we really did need to bring his fever down…."

"I can't believe we did this to him," Riza whispered again. "I thought...I didn't realize he really still felt so sick…."

Hughes opened his mouth to say something else comforting to Riza, but he was interrupted by the sound of gagging. Hughes felt the muscles of Mustang's back tense under his hand again, and he quickly turned back towards his friend. Mustang was retching again. He dry-heaved painfully a couple times, then brought up a few small mouthfuls of bile. His eyes were half-lidded by this point. He looked unhappy, but Hughes wasn't sure he really understood what was going on. He didn't even have the strength to lean over the trash can.

"He's so sick," Riza said from behind him. To Hughes' horror, she sounded a little panicked. "I'm not sure he can make it through the night."

"He'll be fine, he's almost done," Hughes said firmly. "He just needs sleep."

As tenderly as he could, Hughes lifted Mustang's head and wiped the side of his face with his sleeve. Mustang didn't even react. His eyes flickered slightly, but that was all.

The drugs had finally done their job. Mustang was close to sleep now; the nausea and the pain were no longer strong enough to fight off the medication. He really would be able to sleep now, Hughes thought. They would just need to watch him, because he clearly wouldn't wake up if there was any sort of problem.

Hughes brushed Mustang's sweaty hair out of his eyes one last time. He pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, and moved the trash can a little closer to the sofa. Then he sat back on his heels, determined to watch his friend as long as he needed to to let him get some sleep.

* * *

Riza watched as Hughes tucked the blanket closer around Mustang, fingers gentle on his injured shoulder. He placed his hand on Mustang's forehead, and whispered something to him that she couldn't quite catch.

Maybe she'd misjudged the Major. She still thought that Mustang's health was more important than his career, but she knew that Mustang wouldn't agree with her. And over the past few hours, Hughes had shown her that he did care about his friend, just as much as she did. By trying to keep Mustang out of trouble, he was making a different choice than she would have, but it didn't necessarily mean that he placed any less importance on Mustang's well-being.

Hughes sank to a sitting position in front of Mustang, staring intently at his now-sleeping friend. He fought back a yawn, and Riza stirred.

"We have an extra blanket and pillow. You could get some sleep," she offered, suspecting the answer.

"No, that's okay," Hughes said, still watching Mustang. "I...I don't want to sleep right now. But there's no reason for both of us to have to stay awake."

Riza paused. She knew Hughes had to be just as exhausted as she was. "I'll sleep," she finally said. "But only if you switch with me later. We won't be any use to him if we're exhausted."

Hughes didn't reply, and at first she thought her tentative olive branch had been rejected. But then, she saw his shoulders relax slightly and he nodded.

"Okay. I'll wake you up halfway through the night."

Riza set up the blanket against the opposite wall of the office and lay down. It wasn't exactly a feather bed, but it was much better than Ishval. She closed her eyes and tried her best to let go of the stress of the day.

She was drifting off now, and the words twisted themselves into her dreamstate. "Sleep well," she heard, and she did.


	6. Chapter 6

Mustang didn't stir for the rest of Hughes' watch, and as far as he knew, not for Riza's either. Riza woke him as the sun began to shine through the office windows. They had an early start today, but then the diplomats would be gone and they could figure out how to solve this problem.

Hughes rubbed sleep from his eyes and pushed himself off the office floor, wincing as his joints cracked uncomfortably. He walked over to Mustang's couch, hoping desperately that Mustang would somehow hear his approach and sit up, that the medicine would have broken his fever (or at least decreased it).

Mustang lay still beneath the blanket, unaware of their presence. Hughes reached down and shook him gently.

"Hey, Roy. You gotta wake up now, okay?"

Mustang didn't respond.

Hughes turned towards Riza. "Has he been like this the whole time?"  
She nodded worriedly. "He...he's barely moved the whole time I've been watching him."

Hughes thought he might offend Riza if he reached out and took Mustang's pulse, which was the only reason he resisted. His friend looked dead. His face was pale, lips cracked from dehydration, bangs pasted to his damp-looking forehead. Hughes pressed his hand against Mustang's neck. The medicine had allowed him to mostly sleep through the night, but it seemed to have worn off now. Mustang's fever had spiked again, and he seemed all but unconscious.

"Help me get him sitting up," Hughes said. Riza knelt by his side, and together they grabbed Mustang's shoulders and hauled him into a sitting position. The blanket he'd had tucked around him fell off.

The movement did rouse him a little. His eyes flickered, opened for a few seconds and seemed to focus, then closed.

"Roy? Roy? Can you hear me?"  
"Oh god," Riza whispered, putting a hand on one of his pale cheeks. "He's burning up-"

"Can we get him some more of that medicine?" Hughes asked. He had no idea how Mustang was supposed to make it through...any of the rest of the activities. He couldn't walk, he couldn't even stand. Anyone who was too close to him would be able to feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. Hughes had no idea what they were going to do.

"You saw what that did to him," Riza said. "It knocked him out, and that was the best thing it did. You know he can't handle any more of that."  
Hughes nodded. He could tell his friend was badly dehydrated, but he wasn't sure he could even keep down water now. He didn't want to keep picturing Mustang drugged out of his mind and crying as he threw up bile, but there was no way to get that image out of his head. Riza was right, they couldn't put him through any part of that again.

Hughes slapped Mustang. It wasn't a hard slap, just enough to get him to open his eyes again, to show Mustang that Hughes meant business. It worked, kind of. Mustang did open his eyes, and manage to focus on Hughes. He lifted one of his hands feebly, as if he planned to somehow retaliate. But then he just dropped his head and looked down at his lap. His breathing was ragged and shaky.

"Roy," Hughes said, as firmly as he could. He grabbed one of Mustang's hands, squeezing it tightly enough to give him a constant reminder of his presence. "It's time for you to get up. Do you understand me?"

"I can't," he said softly.

"Sir," Riza said. "With all due respect, I believe that you can. It is very important that you stay awake and pay attention. You only have a little longer left, and you are going to make it."

Hughes looked at Riza with more than a modicum of respect. But Mustang was avoiding both of their eyes, and nothing they were saying was really getting through to him.

"So tired…." he whispered.

"I know you're tired," Riza said firmly. "A few more hours, and you can sleep. Now, open your eyes."

Mustang didn't comply, and Hughes slapped his face again. "Come on, Roy," he said, and Mustang's eyes flickered open.

"Yeah, that's it," Hughes encouraged him. "Look at me."

Mustang's eyes slid closed, and he mumbled something unintelligible. Hughes looked at Riza, and saw her mouth set determinedly. He nodded at her, and hoping it was for the last time, hit Mustang's cheek lightly.

"Look at me, Roy," he snapped, and Mustang blinked at him, looking wounded. Hughes felt his heart twist in his chest, but if it took Mustang being upset to keep him alert, then that's what had to happen.

"You have to get up now. Do you understand me?" Hughes kept his voice harsh, and Mustang nodded at him, a trifle petulantly.

Working together, Riza and Hughes managed to pull Mustang to his feet. He swayed uncertainly in the middle of the office, head drooping slightly.

"I don't think he can stand on his own," Riza said, sounding miserable. "We'll have to help him."

With some trial and error, which Mustang weathered alarmingly well, merely blinking dazedly as they maneuvered him, they found a position that looked almost natural. Hughes and Riza were positioned on either side of Mustang, slightly behind him to support his weight. Hopefully, no one would look too closely.

"It's almost time," Riza said, not even bothering to look at her watch. "We need to go."

Hughes prodded Mustang in the back, and he mumbled something incomprehensible and stumbled forward out of the room, barely able to keep his balance. Hughes closed his eyes tightly and hoped for a miracle.

* * *

Mustang blinked, and the world blurred. He squinted, trying to clear his vision, but he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus quite right.

Someone poked him in the left side, hard, and he opened his mouth to complain, but all of a sudden talking seemed far too difficult. And then something clawed its way up from the fever haze, and without really thinking about it, he turned left.

"Good job, Roy," someone whispered in his ear, and even though he wasn't sure what had been said, the tone of voice was reassuring.

And Mustang desperately needed to be reassured. Pain was emanating from his right shoulder, badly enough that it made it near impossible for him to focus on anything but the throbbing ache. His head was pounding. His throat hurt, he wanted water but he knew it would just come right back up.

"How much longer?" he asked, unsure if he could keep walking very much more. Or at least, that's what he meant to ask. Instead, all that came out of his mouth was a sort of muffled groan. He went to try again, but by that point he'd already forgotten what he was supposed to be asking.

Mustang took a step forward, and abruptly, he felt one of his legs buckle beneath him. He tried to catch his balance, but he was too weak. He pitched forward helplessly, and one of his knees hit the ground.

"Grab him!" he heard someone shout, but he didn't know if it was Hughes or Riza or maybe someone else entirely.

Then there were hands on his shoulders, hauling him to his feet. The ground still felt like it was lurching beneath him. He reeled dizzily sideways, and felt a second hand on his waist, another at his back. He was turned slightly, and then he was looking into the face of his lieutenant.

"Sir," she said. He had to focus very hard on her to make out the words, it was like he was listening to her through a badly-tuned radio. "Sir, can you hear me? Do you think you can keep going?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly. She was still looking at him, and he knew that she was expecting an answer. But he couldn't even process what had been said. He felt his knees start to buckle again, and if Hughes hadn't been behind him, both hands on his back, he would have fallen to the floor.

He blinked at her, slowly. Her outlines looked funny. She was blurry. And then she was getting darker. He wondered if he was about to pass out. His head felt very strange, and he tried to touch it to make sure it was still there, but then he remembered that his arms didn't work. The ground seemed to be rotating very slowly beneath him. He stumbled backwards into Hughes again, still unable to respond.

"He's not going to make it," Riza said. He stared at her mouth as she said it, wondering if the movement would make more sense than the words themselves.

"He just has to sit there. He doesn't even need to talk. And then it's over."

"Look at him! He's going to faint, he can't walk anymore. He can't even understand what we're saying."

"He can walk another two minutes and then sit in a chair for a little bit, that's all he has to do-"

His eyes drifted closed, and his head fell to his chest again. He realized his legs were shaking, very badly. He wasn't even sure how they were still supporting him.

Riza took his shoulders and shook him. He managed to open his eyes and look at her again.

"Sir, can you do this? Can you even understand me?"

Mustang didn't have a clue what she was saying, but she sounded worried. He nodded slightly, hoping that he'd given her the right answer.

"Lieutenant, I don't think we have much of a choice at this point. He's so close."

"But-"

"Lieutenant-"

"No, you're right…."

And they were walking again.

* * *

Somehow, they managed to get Mustang to the table without incident. Hughes didn't understand how, Mustang clearly looked horrible. He was worryingly pale, but sweat was standing out on his brow, no matter how often Hughes reached out to wipe it away. His eyes were half-closed, and Hughes couldn't get him to keep them open.

Hughes and Riza steered Mustang to the table and Hughes pushed gently on his uninjured shoulder. Mustang sank gracelessly into his chair, and Hughes tried to subtly prevent him from slumping forward as he took his seat beside Mustang. Riza sat on Mustang's other side, hands folded primly on the table, looking as though this was nothing out of the ordinary.

General Grumman stood from his place at the center of the table and cleared his throat. "I would like to take this opportunity to thank our Aerugan friends…."

Hughes tuned him out to a dull buzz, choosing instead to focus on Mustang.

"Roy, open your eyes," he hissed into Mustang's ear. Mustang's eyes remained closed, and he slipped forward slightly.

Hughes poked him. Mustang didn't react.

"I'm sorry," Hughes told him, then pinched his side as hard as he could. Mustang's eyes shot open at that, and he gasped a little in wounded anger.

"Stay awake," Hughes said in his ear, knowing that he wouldn't understand. Mustang continued to blink angrily at him, but at least he wasn't slumped on the table anymore.

Grumman continued to drone on, and the awareness slowly left Mustang's eyes. Hughes pinched him every so often, just to keep him upright. But as Grumman's interminable speech dragged on, Mustang responded less and less well to Hughes' attempts.

"Come on, Roy," Hughes hissed as he viciously twisted Mustang's skin. Mustang made a small "meep" of displeasure, but didn't react apart from that.

Grumman seemed to be winding down, and Hughes knew that Mustang would have to get up from the table as the diplomats left. If he couldn't stand, they'd be caught. They were too close to let that happen.

Hughes swallowed and muttered an apology to Mustang that he knew wouldn't be understood. Then, he reached up as subtly as he could and poked the skin around Mustang's injured shoulder.

Mustang's eyes widened, and for a horrifying moment, Hughes thought that he was going to scream and ruin everything. But he didn't scream, he just stared at Hughes like he'd stabbed him, which wasn't too far off.

"It's for your own good," Hughes told him. "Please, please just hang on a little longer, so I don't have to do it again."

Mustang just continued to stare at him, eyes narrowed slightly. It was hard for Hughes to read his expression, most of it just spoke of fever and pain. But Hughes thought that Mustang was also a little angry. Hughes wondered if he had crossed a line by touching the wound itself. But no, it was what had to be done, Mustang's eyes were now glassy with pain now but he was at least upright, and seemed more lucid than he'd been all morning.

Still. Hughes didn't want his best friend to be mad at him. He would apologize for this and all the other pain he had caused him once he was well enough to even understand the words.

Mustang blinked blearily a few times, and then actually managed to turn and focus his attention on Grumman. Hughes eyed him carefully. As much as he hated hurting him, he was fully prepared to press into the swollen skin around the wound again if it appeared that Mustang was starting to fade.

Finally, Grumman's speech ended. The next step was the last one, but also potentially the most difficult. The Aerugan diplomats would exit the room, and the more senior members of the military would follow them out and salute them as they left East City Command.

Hughes was not technically supposed to be there, since he didn't actually work in the East. He wasn't even sure that Riza was supposed to be there, it should probably only be the Lieutenant Colonel. But there was no way he could get there unassisted, so Hughes would just have to hope that no one caught them. It would be all three of them or none of them.

The Aerugan diplomats rose before any of the Amestrians. Grumman left the room, and they followed in small groups of two or three, not talking. The members of the Amestrian military left next, and Hughes let most of them exit the room before even attempting to get Mustang up.

"Alright," Hughes said, whispering in Mustang's ear so no one else could hear. "Come on buddy, almost done. Last thing."

Mustang didn't react. Hughes shook his good shoulder until Mustang managed to focus on him. He was blinking slowly, looking exhausted and ill, but at least Hughes thought he sort of knew what was going on. He stood, hoping this would prompt Mustang to as well.

Mustang got unsteadily to his feet, heavily supported by Riza on his other side. He almost fell as soon as he had to take any of his own weight, and Hughes had to wrap a hand around his waist to keep him from crashing to the floor.

"Come on, Roy," Hughes muttered, more for his own benefit than Mustang's. Working together, he and Riza managed to steer him toward the door and down the hall. Just a few more minutes, and this ordeal would finally be over….

Hughes tried not to watch Mustang too closely as they limped their way to the front steps of East City Command. Mustang was flinching with every step, and although his eyes were open, they were glassy and unfocused. Hughes couldn't do anything about it now, and worrying about it wouldn't help anything. All he could do was hope that Mustang could hold on a little longer.

The diplomats were standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps, muttering to themselves in their own language. Whatever they were saying, Hughes hoped it wasn't "look at that Amestrian, what the fuck is wrong with him?"

They lurched quietly to the back of the Amestrian contingent and arranged Mustang in his proper place. "We're almost there, sir," Riza whispered to Mustang.

Mustang didn't respond, apart from a vague nod. Hughes didn't think he had the first idea about what was happening. He prodded his friend, just hard enough to attract his attention.

"You're gonna have to salute, and it's gonna hurt real bad, but then it's over. Okay?"

Mustang stared at him, uncertainty further clouding his already-dazed eyes. Then, he nodded, looking slightly afraid. Hughes thought he might have gotten through. Maybe.

Below them, the Aerugans bunched together in a formal-looking knot and, as one, nodded to the Amestrians gathered on the steps. General Grumman raised his arm in a salute, and, one by one, the rest of his soldiers followed suit.

Hughes saluted, and just as he thought that he was going to have to jab Mustang again, his friend gritted his teeth and raised his arm. Hughes placed his free hand on Mustang's back, trying to provide some modicum of support.

It wasn't a very good salute, as Mustang couldn't raise his shoulder nearly enough to meet regulations, and he was swaying lightly on his feet, but he didn't make enough noise for anyone to hear and the Aerugans were walking away. Hughes rubbed Mustang's back and watched them go.

They were taking their own sweet time, Hughes thought, but they passed the gates of Eastern Command and Grumman lowered his salute. With a sigh of relief, Hughes patted Mustang on his other shoulder.

"Good job, Roy. Really."

Mustang smiled softly and hit the concrete with a thud.

* * *

Riza had been holding onto Mustang's elbow, trying to help him balance as he gave the Aerugans a shaky salute and watched them leave Eastern Command. And then she had been feeling Mustang's arm suddenly slip through her grasp as his knees finally gave way and he collapsed to the concrete.

Riza felt what seemed like hundreds of Amestrian soldiers suddenly turn towards her. There was a sudden increase in noise as words flew between them like the whispers of wind. A few people were yelling. Riza paid none of this any mind. She was already moving.

She knelt down by Mustang's side. His eyelids were already fluttering, but she could tell he wasn't really awake. A few moments ago, she'd seen lucidity there, the occasional spark of understanding surfacing before it could be swallowed by the pain. Now, there was nothing. His eyes were open, to slits at least, but there was no recognition there. He didn't seem to realize he'd fallen.

"Medic!" she heard Hughes yell from somewhere above her. "Someone hurry up and get to the infirmary, this man needs a medic right away!"  
Riza cupped Mustang's cheek in her hand. He was burning up, the fever so high she almost instinctively pulled her hand away. He didn't react to her touch at all. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Riza felt someone kneeling down beside her. She looked up, expecting Hughes, but to her shock and horror she saw it was Grumman.

"Sir," she stammered, completely unsure how to explain the situation to him in a way that didn't result in Mustang getting fired. "This was...I think it's just the heat, he's had a long few days and needs rest…."

"No," Grumman said. He laid his hand on Mustang's forehead, and Riza knew there was no way he was going to mistake the fever heat emanating from him in sick waves.

"Sir?" she said, stomach twisting with anxiety.

"I'm surprised he made it this long," Grumman said, sounding half as if he was talking to himself. "When I saw how bad he looked yesterday, I was sure he would never make it."

"You...you knew?" Riza said, trying to keep the shock out of her voice. "You knew that he was-"

"The bastard who accidentally attacked the diplomats, yes," Grumman said conversationally.

"The whole time?"  
"At first I just thought he was unwell. But when he didn't ask to be relieved of his duties I became suspicious, and when I saw how carefully he was using his shoulder, my suspicions were confirmed."  
"But...why didn't you say anything?" Riza said, still struggling to process what the General was saying.

Grumman shrugged. "There wasn't anything I could really do to protect him, and I couldn't let it affect the whole military. If the Aerugans had realized what was going on at any point, I would have had to discharge him immediately, and if they had even the slightest inkling that I had known about it, all our relations would have gone up in smoke. There was nothing I could do except hope that he would be able to pull it off."

Riza stroked the hair back from Mustang's face. He was blinking again, still looking dizzy and confused. His eyes passed over her as if he didn't even know she was there. "He could have died…." Riza whispered.

"Well, it appears he didn't," Grumman said, with a surprising amount of cheerfulness. "And look, here come the medics now. Let's get him up."

* * *

Mustang blinked at the ceiling in some confusion. It was a clean white ceiling, not at all what he had expected. He'd thought that prison ceilings would be grey and cracked. Dirty, at the very least. And he couldn't be anywhere else, not after collapsing in front of the entire staff of East City Command (at least that's what he thought had happened).

Mustang decided that the ceiling wouldn't give him any more answers and tried to push himself up. An IV line tugged at his left arm, and his right shoulder was tightly bandaged, nearly immobilized. A hospital, then.

He succeeded in rising and was greeted by Hughes' and Riza's relieved expressions. He blinked at them, still surprised that he wasn't cuffed to the bed.

"Did we…?" He trailed off, unsure what he was even asking.

"You did it, buddy," Hughes said. "Aerugo and Amestris are officially _not_ at war."

Mustang nodded slowly. However, that didn't answer his question about his own job. Surely Grumman had noticed. Falling flat on his face couldn't have been exactly subtle.

He was just opening his mouth to ask Hughes about his future when the General himself appeared in the doorway. Mustang squeaked slightly, suddenly terrified.

"Lieutenant Colonel Mustang," Grumman said with some severity. Mustang resisted the urge to close his eyes and block his ears, instead doing his best to draw himself straight and take the news like a man. It might spell the end to all his dreams and aspirations, but he'd gotten himself into this and he would have to suffer the consequences.

Grumman cleared his throat impressively, and Mustang felt a wave of apprehension swamp him. Then, the General beamed.

"Excellent job, Mustang. Didn't think you could pull it off. You continue to surprise me, eh?"

Mustang sputtered weakly.

"Oh, I knew the whole time," Grumman said airily, waving a hand. "Glad you didn't make me have you court-martialed. Frightful waste of a good officer."

Mustang's sputters subsided into a confused silence.

"I expect you back at the office in a few days, so get well rather quickly. I'll have someone send flowers, maybe those will help, hmm?"

And with that, he was gone, leaving Mustang alone with his friends, his intact career, and his utter shock.

Hughes coughed slightly. "That's your grandfather, isn't it?" he asked Riza. All Mustang could do was blink silently.

Riza nodded. "On my mother's side."

"Well," Hughes said cheerfully, "he seems nice."


End file.
